Halushki

Bragging

2008-05-11T15:53:00.014-04:00

It's Mother's Day.

I get to do this once a year.

First place, Basic Skills Level Eight Freeskate

The Gardens May Day Competition, Laurel, MD

Oh, and also?
First place, Basic Skills Level Eight Compulsory

Step back, turquoise girls, and observe my
wicked awesome soccer moves.

GGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL!

Me? Oh, I'm just exceptionally cute.
You're welcome.

Got a brag?

Got a Mother's Day post of your own?

Feel free to brag in the comments or link to your post.

MMMMMMWWWWAAAHH!

The Irony Of This Post Is Not Lost On Me

2008-05-07T05:39:00.015-04:00

The following post is brought to you by Parent Bloggers Network. I mean, I wrote it and all, but they played muse and what not. They do me solid like that, especially after I've been hanging upside down all weekend and can barely come up with ideas for breakfast let alone a blog post. Enjoy!

Ah, Spring!

That time of year
for wee spotted deer,
and new camping gear,
and buds appear,
and kids look forward to the end of the academic year.

Okay, I rhymed “year” twice.

And the scansion gets pretty sloppy toward the end there.

But that’s me. It’s my writing style, part of my charm. It’s why you come here for your blogging entertainment instead of visiting my husband’s blog more often. Sure, he writes in full sentences instead of random clauses and phrases, sure he is loathe to toss around comma splices with my reckless abandon. And sentence fragments that begin with “and” and end in a period. And lots of slang and dialect and rhetorical grunts and giggles and blah-blah-blahs.

Sure his blog is well-written and hilarious and has photos of babies and pandas. Although, it could probably use more baby pandas.

But I’m quirky. And you like quirky, right?

However. (<--See! That’s quirky!) Sometimes reading quirky writing is exhausting. It’s exhausting the way that spending a weekend with your friend who thinks he’s Robin Williams is exhausting. Sometimes, you just want to sit still and have a conversation with someone who's sitting still, and not feel as if you have to be a thankful and willing repository for all their wowzee-wowzee-woo-woo cleverness. Sometimes, you just want a sentence that reads like a 3rd grade Language Arts textbook example on how to write strong declarative sentences.

No, no! Don’t stop me. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong or try to cajole me out of my artistic self-chastisement! Let not this important post in self-discovery become nothing more than me with a fishing pole sitting alongside the compliment pond waiting for all my loyal readers to leap up like so many perch and chub to tell me “Oh, no! We really love your comma splices and your funky way of writing in stops and starts and dramatic, cutesy pauses. Please believe us because we are talking fish!” Really…I do know I’m the bees knees in oh so many ways, so don’t let my sudden onset of grammatical piety lead you to believe that I’m bleeding from a mortal wound in my metaphorical and linguistical hip waders. But do allow me sit with myself for a few minutes and marinade in my own bouillabaisse.

(Mmmm! Perchy!)

For you see, I’ve just read this book - Raised By Wolves, by Christie Mellor - that has, essentially, put me in a room with myself for a weekend.

First off, I do love this book the way I adore every single word I just wrote on this post alone. (Let’s be honest here: writers make their stuff public because somewhere deep down, they think they’re swell.) (And that’s okay.) (Says me.) Raised By Wolves made me laugh. It made me smile and enthusiastically nod my head up and down in that commonly understood gesture for “Yup, right on, you wily goofball!” It made me giggle some more and then sigh out loud in devout admiration of a well-placed non sequitur and the mention of Green Goddess Dressing.

Oh, the stream-of-consciousness writing style! Oh, the conglomeration of divergent topics, from why the only aftershave any man should wear is Creed to why one should own a fat separator! Oh, the pulling together of instructions on the proper and environmentally friendly method of washing dishes, with a mini-lesson on the Bill of Rights, with a “how-to” on dealing with your employer’s peeing-and-talking at the same time…and just really making it all congeal as a thematic concept!

Good golly, but ~~I’m~~ Christie Mellor is swell!

But, good gravy…what an exhausting read.

Really. Reading an entire book of this kind of conversational, herky-jerky, exclamation-strewn style of writing was like being clobbered over the head with my own ellipsis-enamored computer monitor.

Now, to be fair to myself - oh, and Christie Mellor (this review is supposed to be about her book, after all) - reading a few hundred words of giddiness on my blog might actually be more comparable to grabbing a whipped cream canister out of the fridge and squirting it into your mouth, along with a little extra nitrous oxide: in other words it’s fun in blog-sized doses, but you couldn't make a meal out of it unless you wanted to permanently walk sideways with your brain dribbling out your ears. (Obligatory Warning: Nitrous oxide is bad, kids.)

So maybe I did ~~Christie Mellor~~ ~~myself~~ ~~Christie Mellor~~ myself wrong by reading this entire book in one sitting. It’s probably better digested in little bites.

“Hmmmm…how does one poach chicken or make the perfect cup of coffee? Let me consult Ms. Mellor’s fine tome on How To Be A Hip, Young Adult Without Being A Boor, A Bore, or A Brat.”

(Note: This book is geared toward twenty-somethings, but it would work reasonably well for anyone between the ages of 21 and 89 and who still has no idea how to, say, be a gracious house guest or build an Astro Weenie Christmas Tree. After 89, I‘d have to agree that new socialization tricks are a bit harder to learn, so you're off the hook if you’re 92 years old, visiting my home, and you decide to use my new, fluffy white bath towels to clean your car. I'd even say that the book is a good gift for graduating high school students, even though there is a chapter on how to booze responsibly. Hey, you might be European, right?)

“Oh, say! I really don’t want to be the irritating, drunken jackass at my friend’s next party! Tell me how to achieve that goal, Ms. Mellor, and don’t mince words! How can I drink responsibly and with style and not be That Guest, the one who doesn’t pick-up on the host’s cue (e.g. vacuuming around my feet and yanking my vodka-and-cigarette-butt martini out of my hand) that the time to leave was three hours ago.”

“Boy, I just seem to have trouble winning friends and influencing people. I wonder whether Christie Mellor's book Raised By Wolves can provide me with a list of conversation topics to avoid so that I don’t constantly come across as a self-centered and/or shallow and/or dangerously insane. And while she’s at it, could she provide me with illustrated pointers on how to properly shake hands with a woman without appearing to be a leering nipple inspector?”

Although, there are other books of this ilk that do this sort of thing - just head to amazon.com and search on “How To Be A Grown Up" or "Common Skills Everyone Should Possess Like Making A Bed Or Boiling An Egg Or Writing A Thank You Note” or “Commonly Accepted Etiquette That Helps Grease Social Interactions Within Our Greater Culture and Makes People Feel At Ease” or “100 Simple Ways To Not Be A Jerk Starting With Putting Down Your Cell Phone While You Are Making A Transaction At A Cash Register” - Ms. Mellor’s book adds that little extra of kooky, humorous narrative that makes any medicine go down a bit more easily.

Just like…why, just like I do!

Awwwww, see that?

Oh self! I knew we’d make up!

C’mere me, you big silly! Give us a hug!

Look! I brought an ellipses for you.

…

And a bouquet of exclamation points!

!!!!!!!!

Let’s never argue again.

And let’s end the blog post right here...

Before the monitor falls over on your head.

hlpme!

2008-05-06T12:25:00.003-04:00

frgot 2 bring smorez on camping trp!

14 angree 9yroldz hung me frm trree by my bootstrps!

upsde dwn!

txt mssaging from cell phn

buzzrds R circling!

plz snd reinfrcmnts w/laddr n knife!

n bandaidz!

(n beer)

signd -

ur leadr

jozet

i, nutso

2008-04-30T17:39:00.011-04:00

nataliedee.com

Test. Test.

I'm trying to get a flippin' poll to post, but so far it ain't happening. Please bear with me.

I'm a little scrambled right now.

You see, I've been getting ready all week for a camping trip this weekend. And not just any camping trip.

Oh no.

It's not like the old days where I could just load up one sleeping bag and ten bags of Doritos (that's three meals per day plus morning and afternoon snacks) and head off to some backwoods camp ground where I'd meet up with a bunch of friends and live like a heathen for a weekend, what with the live Grateful Dead cover band and the living room furniture in the woods and the late night confessional/"wine tasting" circle otherwise known as "The Gutter Table".

<--- Dear Friend after late night at The Gutter Table, circa 1990- something.

No, no! This time I'm heading out to the woods with a whole bunch of third-graders, some of whom - I gather - haven't been out in the woods a whole lot. And we're heading out to the woods and we're staying in unheated shelters.

Oh! And it's going to be cold at night. (We had frost last night. Yes, that cold. )

Oh! Oh! AND the weather for the weekend looks like this:

Friday - scattered thunderstorms
Saturday - thunderstorms, not so scattered
Sunday - even more thunderstorms. Will they be scattered? Who can say?

Wait...here's the best part -

Are you ready?

On this outing into the woods with a whole bunch of children, Yours Truly will play the role of Head Authority Figure and Leader.

That's right.

Me.

There I am there in the picture to the right (I'm on the left in the funny hat.) About 20 years ago, I was running around in a jester costume with my sister and some random member of her husband's family.

This weekend, I will be responsible for a bunch of Girl Scouts in the woods, during a thunderstorm, with no heat.

Now, I will say - to my credit - that I made the very brilliant decision to enlist about six other very responsible adults to go with me. I think that I even said to one of them, "Please don't hesitate to pull me aside and slap me upside the head if you think that I about to make an idiotic decision regarding just about any decision I could make while at camp." I'm that confident in the people I surround myself with.

Which would beg the question, "How did you get to be the leader, anyway? Good grief, were there no chimps available?"

Well, let me let you in on the rigorous and highly competitive process for attaining the prestigious and lauded title of Girl Scout Leader.

It goes like this:

1. Call your local Girl Scout Council and ask to register your 5-year-old in a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Kindergarten-aged girls.

2. Fill out the registration form for your daughter and send it in to Council.

3. Wait for a phone call to learn which troop your daughter will be placed in.

4. Tell your daughter all about Girl Scouting and how much fun she will have in the woods with her troop and her leader.

5. Wait some more for the call from Council.

6. Wait some more.

7. Call Council to find out what's up, you haven't received a call to tell you which troop your daughter will be placed in.

8. Get told by Council that they couldn't actually find anyone to be a Daisy troop leader and there are several dear little girls who are all in tears at home because they so want to be little Daisies and their sweet little hearts are breaking because no one will step forward to be a leader and really, it's so easy, only one hour of volunteer time a week to prepare for the meetings and Daisies don't even sell cookies and the little girls are all so adorable at that age and you can just have fun, fun, fun at the meetings and your first training session will be this week and thank you so much for volunteering to lead the troop, without people like you, Girl Scouting couldn't happen and please send $10.00 for your Girl Scout registration fee and welcome aboard, call us and tell us when your first meeting will be held!

9. Put down phone and wonder what just happened.

10. Voila! You're a Girl Scout Leader!

It's actually very much like Amway.

Long story short, sweet little Daisy Girl Scouts who love nothing more than to spend meetings decorating coloring pages and making bunnies out of egg cartons suddenly turn into Brownies and Juniors who want to tramp through the woods and dive off cliffs and bronco-bust wild horses.

And let me tell you, taking a troop of girls into the woods for a weekend requires much more than 1 hour of prep time the week before.

First there is the 6-hour camping training that I need to take.

Then, there is the First Aid and CPR training.

Then there are the health care forms for everyone and the criminal background checks of all adults going camping and the travel request form that I need to send to Council and then there's the drivers' background checks for all the adults transporting girls to the camp plus the parents' permission slips.

Then there is the menu planning for 24 people, taking into consideration allergies and preferences and the one kid who swears up and down that she just will. not. eat. pasta. and you're about ripping your hair out because trying to feed 24 people on a budget and not having at least one pasta meal is just madness, but then you say "Do you know what 'pasta' is?" and the kid says "Nope" and you say, "You know, like, spaghetti," and she suddenly brightens up and says, "Oh yeah! I love spaghetti!" and Eureka! Now just don't refer to cut vegetables as "crudité".

And I haven't even begun to print out the schedule of outdoor adventure badges we're going to earn while at camp, or the camp chore chart, or the directions or the emergency call list, or the location of the nearest pizza parlor just in case scattered showers turn to monsoons and the camp fire cookout is a bust.

And you know what's ironic?

I bet that a good majority of the kids just want to run around in the woods and eat Doritos.

So anyway, that's what I've been doing all week.

And I have much, much, much more to do.

"One hour of preparation a week" indeed.

It's hard being the grown-up.

It's even harder being the ~~sucker~~ leader.

Anyway, if I can get this poll working, you can vote your opinion of just how nutso I am.

I won't be offended if the answer is "a lot".

I plan on re-earning my "Gutter Table" badge as soon as I get home on Sunday.

more at twiigs.com...

How I Celebrated Earth Day

2008-04-23T19:54:00.021-04:00

That's not me in the photo, so you can stop laboring under the false belief that I have toned thighs and a great tan. We need to stop that rumor right here.

However, that lawn mower does resemble my lawn mower.

Pretty darn spiffy, isn't it?

Yes, that's a lawn mower.

It's what is often times referred to as a "reel mower". Perhaps you've seen one in a dark corner of your grandmother's basement, next to the 40-year-old cans of pickled chow-chow and covered in cobwebs. Perhaps you even had to try to move your granny's old-timey reel mower to get to the chow-chow and you were instantly caught off-guard by the sheer heft and general immovability of the rusted-out landscaping behemoth. I believe that my own mother's old reel mower weighed somewhere between 100 and 150 tons and took a team of oxen four hours to drag it around our 1/12th acre in-town back yard.

But this ain't your granny's reel mower.

The reel mowers of today weigh about 20 pounds or less and a good one costs in the $150 range. The first newer reel mower I bought cost about $95 at Sears and it cut grass just dandy. I can only imagine that the $200 reel mowers lovingly trim each blade of grass with the precision and elan of a Garren New York stylist.

What else?

Well, Chateau Halushki is situated on a rolling, near-1/3 acre estate in a 1970's subdivision, and the owners desperately try to maintain some grass in the back yard, with the front yard being slowly turned over to eco-friendly, low-maintenance native plants (i.e. dandelions and wild strawberry, i.e. weeds) and natural landscaping (i.e. dirt). If you're as spacially challenged as I am and have no idea how large 1/3 acre is, to give you a rough idea of how much ground we have to mow (sans house and trees), think of maybe three tennis courts worth of grass, one of which is on a 45 degree incline.

Now, with a self-propelled gas mower, it would take me roughly 30-45 minutes to mow the lawn, depending on how many Barbies and dead squirrels I had to pick out of the grass while mowing.

With a Madame Jozet-propelled reel mower, it takes roughly 45-60 minutes to mow the lawn, depending on how often I have to stop to check-out how ripped and vascular my awesome biceps
look.

With a gas mower, I had to spend money on gas, and last I checked, a gallon was ringing-in at about $3.55. (Cost in polar bear deaths = priceless.)

With a reel mower, I have to "fuel" myself with carbs and protein: locally grown whole wheat crackers + organic peanut butter = about $ .50 per serving.

Now right there in polar bear lives and great-looking arms alone, you can see that a reel mower might be something to consider. But wait! There's more!

With a reel mower

You can mow at any time of day and not be the labeled The Obnoxious Neighbor Who Evidently Never Had 1) A Hangover, Or 2) A Napping Infant. Seriously, from break-of-dawn till dusk, it seems that someone is running some loud yard equipment in our neighborhood. It's like Neighbor 1 decides at 7:30 AM to start mowing his lawn, and this reminds Neighbor 2 "Oh yeah! I really should mow the lawn today!" and this reminds Neighbor 3 and so on and so forth, and all day long it's BBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAAANNNGGGRRRRAAAAA and that's just the lawn mowers. I didn't even start talking about the leaf blowers and hedge clippers. You know, one time, one of my friends joshingly poked fun at me while I was silently and elegantly raking my leaves (truly, I am a ballerina with a rake), and then she jumped into her car to drive to the gym where she was probably going to work out on some machine that simulated leaf raking except with beeps and blips and an electric hum.

Sorry...I got off topic...
You can mow with your kids in the yard and not be afraid that a stone will fly up and knock someone's eye out, or that someone is going to slip under the mower and end up with a hunk of hamburger for a foot. Okay, maybe I'm the only one who worries about such things, but honestly, it could happen. Right?
Your 8-year-old can mow the lawn. Sure, reel mowers are still a bit sharp and slicey, but a kid would really have to go out of her way to take an appendage off (knock on wood.) Now, I'm not promising that your elementary-aged kid will be able to manage evenly spaced passes (at first), but her attempts will be good as a first run and will lessen your time at the mower. It's also a great hard-labor punishment if authoritarian parenting is your bent. Anyway, a reel mower can allow for an outdoor chore chart line much sooner than a gas mower. (Unless your kids are growing up on a farm in which case they're probably successfully running combine harvesters by 8-years-old, so never mind.)
Your friends will want to mow your lawn - at least once. I kid you not. Your reel mower will make you a genuine Tom Sawyer of sorts. Friends and family will be fascinated with your primitive grass-cutting contraption and want to try it for themselves just to see how much of a nut job you really are. Or, like the sledge-hammer game at a carnival midway, folks will want to test their brawn against yours by attempting to mow the other half of your yard in half your time. Let 'em have at it. Go make some more lemonade and then gush over their superior strength and stamina. Enjoy your mowed lawn.
You can mow your lawn and stop to talk to neighbors. I love this! It seems that a good number of folks in my neighborhood hang out on their back patios in the summer. Vive la suburbs! However, it can get a bit downright creepy at times to walk through a well-populated neighborhood and not see any of the...popules. Where is everyone? Well, there are some dog-walkers that I've met. And a few morning strollers. But perambulating around as I do, the only other time I see humans is when they are out mowing their front lawns. And because mowers are so loud and, I suppose, inconvenient to stop and then start again, the humans give a smile and cursory wave, and then it's back to mowing. With a reel mower, you can stop what you're doing, engage the passer-by in a neighborly chat about, oh, your old-timey ways and the polar beat population, etc...which, uh, may explain why people cross the street to the other side or turn around and head in the opposite direction when the see me out mowing my front lawn. Okay, strike that reason to own a reel mower.
Reel mowing is healthier for your grass! It's true! Reel mowers actually do scissor the grass tips oh-so-gently and precisely, while gas mower blades hack off your fescue's tiny noggins leaving a raggedy edge and a bitter turfdom.
Reel mowers are dead sexy. I may not look like the chick at the top right now (or ever) after a winter-long Girl Scout cookie binge, but by September, I'm going to be one pumped-up and powerful mama (with grass-stained feet.) Guys dig strong, take-charge women!

Alright, really, guys (i.e. my husband) dig wives who mow the lawn. But I'll take the rockin' biceps as a consolation prize.

Now, of course, yes, of course, reel mowers do have a"But! But!" attached.

If you let your lawn get to knee height (not that that's ever happened here, eh-hem), it will take you at least 32 passes to get the lawn down to putting length.

Also, reel mowers don't always catch the tall wispy weeds and instead just bend them down and let them pop back up again. So, if your lawn is a bit "weedy" like ours is, you may end up with perfectly cut grass but with a spattering of stray fronds and stems poking up like the spines on a lionfish.

Here's a lionfish.

Hey, that's actually not so bad looking! I'll never look at my weedy lawn again with such disdain.

Also, if you do own a larger property with much grass (some reel mower "experts" say an acre or more), a reel mower might not be right for you unless you just love lawn mowing so much that you can't think of anything you'd rather do for twenty hours a week.

Now, of course, you could still buy a reel mower for the workout benefits and just use it for part of your lawn or part of the time. Or, if you have several children who would benefit from the moral correction profited through hard labor and enforced environmentalism, you could spread out the learning opportunity over individual chore times throughout the week.

But, otherwise, you'll probably need a power mower for lager plots of land.

Or a few goats. (Please consult my sister on this.)

--------------------

So, anyway, this April 22, I marked the day by sending my husband into our basement to revive our reel mower after its long winter's nap, and then I put muscle to metal and mowed the lawn.

Silently. Swiftly.

And with a prayer for the polar bears upon my lips.

After which, I enjoyed a luncheon of whole wheat crackers, peanut butter, and chow chow.

Happy Earth Day!

And for Mommy Warriors, a bicycle lawn mower! Although the Treehugger site says that reel mowing does use lower body already, so maybe I will get those firm thighs and buttocks by the end of summer.

For Your Friday Viewing Pleasure

2008-04-18T07:25:00.002-04:00

Questions:

1. What do you think this is?

2. If you could buy one of these to scare the deer from eating your petunias, would you?

3. If you had one of these as a pet, what would your kids name it?

4. Who will be the first recording artist or group to use one of these in a music video?

5. Which state politician will be caught in bed with one?

6. How soon before one of these shows up in your nightmares?

Have a great weekend!

How To Have A More Civil Argument With A Democratic Nominee For President

2008-04-14T04:31:00.028-04:00

Dear Senator Obama,

Heya!

How’s it going?

All well on the campaign trail these days? You getting enough sleep? Staying hydrated and not pigging-out on too many TastyKakes here in Pennsylvania? You don’t want to end up looking like Ed Rendell. Philadelphia food can do that to a person.

Anyway, I hear you were visiting just down the road from me tonight, speaking at Messiah College. I would have liked to have attended The Compassion Forum to hear you and Senator Clinton speak, but some of us had to work.

Oh gosh, I mean…not that what you’re doing isn’t work, don’t get me wrong! I didn’t mean it that way!

Ah drat, I’m so sorry…I’m such a goofus. I’m always doing that open mouth, insert foot thing.

Oh, I know you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I knew that you knew what I meant.

And I know that you knew that I…well…you know….

But it still has to be said…you know?

Anyway, I think you know what I'm saying.

It's like with that bitter Pennsylvanian thing. Whew! What was all that hub-bub about, huh? There you were, giving a 40-minute speech on the current economic crisis and laying out your thoughts on how we can meet the challenges ahead of us and so on and so forth. And yet, just a few days later, people were quoting the speech and jumping up and down about some mention of bitter guns and religion. And then, I had to look up “xenophobe” because suddenly every blogger out there was mentioning xenophobes, and I had to make sure it wasn’t the next cool Internet word appropriation, like “widget” or “gadget”. I just wanted to make sure we were really talking about fear of strangers, you know?

Okay, before I get too far ahead of myself, let me first say this by way of introduction:

I grew up in a small town in rural Pennsylvania. Now, I’m not going to recount the entire story of my coal-mining grandparents and the mines closing down and the Wal-Marts moving in and the only entertainment being riding around on Friday nights counting dead deer on the side of the road. (Notice I did not make a cow-tipping joke.) First of all, the story is not so unique nor the details so important that we need to rehash it all right here and now. Second, I’m saving that story for my tell-all memoir that will net me millions and win me a Pulitzer. Suffice to say that if you’ve listened to even one Bruce Springsteen album, then you’ve gotten the gist of how my "growing up in a small town" played out (minus the verse about a girl wrapping her legs round my velvet rims.)

And I know that even that paragraph right there can come across as a touch bitter, but really, I’m not. I’m actually bitter about very little in my life - not being asked to my senior prom, a perm in eight grade, sure - but other than that, I’d say that life in Pennsylvania has more so evoked sustained feelings ranging from blithe amusement to heartbroken sadness with plenty of joy, elation, and drunkenness in-between (Yuengling beer being an important emotion in Pennsylvania.)

But bitter?

Bitter just sounds so pathetic and defeated. Bitter sounds like small town Pennsylvanians are sitting in their rooms with the walls painted black and chewing on their bottom lip while poking pins into effigies of Essex, Connecticut.

You didn’t really mean “bitter”, right?

It was sort of like that unfortunate Whole Foods thing. You really meant to say "A&P".

Or like with the daughter being "punished" with a baby hooplah? Yeah, in spite of the fact that the hour leading up to nap time can sometimes seem like a circle of hell, maybe “punished” wasn’t the best choice, you know, to say out loud…unless you’re speaking to a room filled exclusively with sleep-deprived mothers of colicky infants, of course.

In regard to all the economic ills and woes of Pennsylvania, I’d rather think that we’re not so much bitter, but instead “righteously angry”. Or, how about, “justifiably ticked-off"? Maybe, if you're from the coal region, you could say that you’ve got your “gotchies in a twist, da f*ck!” But seriously, I’m just not sure about “bitter“. “Bitter” just doesn’t capture how pissed off most people are. Or how motivated many are to work to rise to the challenges, etc., etc. You know... all that other great "Yes We Can" stuff and "We are the change we are waiting for" that motivates the other 49 states so well?

We're like that, too, in Pennsylvania!

Don't think of us as bitter.

We're righteously angry!

We're all angry and "Yes We Can, Dammit!"

So, you know, I think a $3.95 thesaurus would have solved that one small word choice problem, done and done. But really, no harm, no foul.

Now, about the hunting and religion thing...you said:

"And it's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Here, it’s not so much an issue of word choice, but instead, perhaps, punctuation. I do only take the tiniest amount of issue with the lack of semi-colon or at least additional commas and conjunctions in some attempt to separate Pennsylvania’s deer hunters and nuns from the immigrant haters. Or is it "haters of immigrants"?

If I can use an analogy, lumping us all together like that is like saying “And it's not surprising that starving people will eat lard or tofu or feces or raw heroin or poodles." I mean, okay, there’s an argument some people will make against eating lard, but in reality, you just haven’t tasted a French fry until you’ve tasted one fried in lard. And with tofu, again, while admitting that you actually eat tofu and enjoy it can seem ridiculously cultish, and trying to convince yourself that it tastes like something other than congealed cardboard is more an act of faith then based in any reality- aside from that, there are still real health benefits and positive consequences to eating tofu that cannot be denied, whether one chooses to eat tofu to maintain good health, or whether it is only in illness that one begins to cling the hope offered by those more scientifically unproven yet miraculous claims of solidified-soy-curd converts.

But c’mon, tastes aside, eating either lard or tofu is much different than putting poo in your mouth. Or poodles.

Does that make sense? Do you see where maybe a comma or semi-colon or two could have easily straightened out that string of run-on cling-ons?

Although, to be honest, you probably could have safely left out the gun and god mention altogether. The fact is, some of us here in the hinterlands do like to hunt and pray - often at the same time - but frankly, we'd do it whether the mines were opened or closed.

Sure, we might hunt more often when chicken breasts cost $6.99 a pound or when we‘re out of work, because hey! Free hunting day! And can you blame us for clinging to religion, especially in the middle of a cold February and what with the church hall being heated on Tuesday nights for Bingo and the coverall jackpot being $1200? $1200 will pay for a lot of buckshot. And c’mon, Senator Obama, you really going to tell me that it didn’t ever cross your mind even once to bury a statue of St. Joseph in your backyard when you were trying to sell a house? That spiritual hocus pocus works. Just ask Oprah and Eckhart Tolle.

Anyway, I know that you know that not all of us fed-up small town Pennsylvanians are consequentially bitter, gun-toting, rosary-wielding hicks who won’t sit next to a Burkinabe immigrant in the lunchroom and who refuse to buy Italian shoes because they just seem too hoity-toity. Or vice versa, for that matter.

And I know that you know that I know that you know. And I know that you know that I know that…well, you know.

But you know how it is.

You said the thing about the stuff, and I heard the thing about the stuff, and I live in Pennsylvania and grew up in a small town and maybe I'm supposed to say something, I dunno. Most of all, though, I’m a just a real pill when it comes to semi-colons and word connotation…or is it denotation?…well, whatever, I'm just like that.

You've got a friend in Pennsylvania who is picky about being lumped-in with poodle eaters without the protection of a comma is all I'm saying.

Anyway, I just wanted to drop a line saying, yeah, I know.

And now you can write me a long letter telling me how much work it is to run a Presidential campaign, especially one where every ninny with a keyboard is parsing every word out of your mouth.

And then I can write you a letter saying, “I know you didn’t mean to say ‘ninny’, but….”

And you’ll say, “I know you know.”

And I’ll say, “I know, you know, you know.”

And we'll all just...know from now on.

You know?

Glad we got that cleared up.

You and Hillary are both doing an awesome job. Don't eat too many Tastykakes. And don't either of you get tempted into any cow-tipping jokes.

So. Not. Funny.

Signed,

Righteously ~~Drunk~~ Angry in Pennsylvania

I'm so much more than bitter.

How To Have A More Civil Argument With Your Dear Spouse

2008-04-06T14:14:00.008-04:00

How Not To Argue

We join our couple's heated discussion already in progress.

Dear Husband: ...and furthermore! Let me tell you again how much it really drives me nuts when you leave the car radio turned on and cranked up so that when I get in the car and start the engine, I'm greeted by All Things Considered blaring at 120 decibels! I don't know which is worse: simply being bored to death by a monotone NPR announcer or my ears bleeding while I'm being bored to death by a monotone NPR announcer.

Dear Wife: Oh yeah?! Oh yeah?! Well...well...uh... your hat is funny looking!

Dear Husband: What...? I'm not even wearing a hat!

Dear Wife: Okay then, what about all those times that I did turn off the radio, huh? Oh yeah, forgot about those times, didn'tchya! All those times that I was juggling a baby and a bag of groceries and a chainsaw and I still went back to the car and turned off the radio because I remembered how much my dearly beloved hated the radio playing as soon as he started the car! What about all those times that I did remember to turn off the radio? Do I ever get a "Thank you, Toots!" or a "Gee whiz, you're one considerate broad"? Oh no! (Pointing finger in the air for emphasis.) I only ever hear about the times that I forgot to turn off stinking NPR host Robert Siegel!

Dear Husband: So basically you want me to thank you for all those times that Robert Siegel didn't shove a pointy stick in my ear.

Dear Wife: Oh, someone's going to shove a pointy stick somewhere, that's for sure, buster.

Dear Husband: Well, harrumph!

Dear Wife: Well, harrumphdy-harrumph!

--------------

How To Argue With Dignity and Respectfulness

Two weeks later and after mutual agreement to rise above the petty squabbling, wife gets a phone call while at work.

Dear Wife: Hello?

Dear Husband: Why hello, Dear Wife!

Dear Wife: Why hello, Dear Husband! Howsoever can I help thee?

Dear Husband: Well, methinks that you took my car keys to work with you.

Dear Wife: Why, I find that quite impossible to believe. Surely you are mistaken.

Dear Husband: No, I am ever so sorry, but I do believe this is a fact. Also, I do believe that you have taken your own keys with you to work as well.

Dear Wife: No, this just cannot be. I beg of thee to check the top desk drawer again. I am sure that you will find your car keys resting comfortably within.

Dear Husband: Done and done, and yet there are no keys, and what with me needing to drive our eldest child to a birthday party in fifteen minutes.

Dear Wife: You don't say.

Dear Husband: I do say.

Dear Wife: Hmmm. Well, in fact, I did just walk to the break room and have discovered that I am, in fact, in possession of both our sets of keys.

Dear Husband: Fancy that!

Dear Wife: Yes! Fancy that!

Dear Husband: Fancy, fancy that!

Dear Wife:

Dear Husband:

Dear Wife: I suppose that I can clock out momentarily and drive home to return your keys.

Dear Husband: That would be much appreciated! Thank you so much for your gracious return of my keys!

Dear Wife: You're welcome.

Dear Husband: That you took.

Dear Wife: Yes, yes...took accidentally.

Dear Husband: Oh, of course! Accidentally.

Dear Wife: Yes.

Dear Husband: And, moreover, thank you for all those other times that you remembered not to take my keys to work with you. I so do appreciate your previous consideration in this matter.

Dear Wife: You're welcome.

Dear Husband: Did I also ever thank you for all those times that you didn't accidentally hit me in the hand with a hammer? That was awfully copacetic of you.

Dear Wife: Okay, har-dee-har. I get it Mr. Funny Guy.

Dear Husband: At this time, I'd also like to thank you for all those times you didn't light my socks on fire...and the for all those times that you remembered not to...

Dear Wife: *click*

--------------

It's like Hepburn and Tracy around here, I tell ya.

Hepburn and Tracy.

To Did List

2008-04-02T23:15:00.004-04:00

1. Raked and hand de-thatched entire back yard. As always, done in a moment of first-breath-of-spring madness, beginning with much adrenaline and gusto and iced-tea fueled vigor, and ending with a quarter-sized blister on my right hand because Damn The Gardening Gloves, I'm Doing This Spur-of-the-Moment Commando Style!

2. Woke up next morning in utter agony as each one of my "raking muscles" made itself known in a sort of all out sado-charley horse knot fest. Wept freely until the 600 mg ibuprofen kicked in.

3. Surveyed rake-damaged lawn and then sped off to Home Despot for $45.89 worth of sun-and-shade mix high traffic area grass seed. Barely cajoled remaining uninjured muscles (those would be my tongue and the muscles controlling my eyebrows) into lifting the bag of seed out of car and into garage, upon which I then promptly began forgetting about it. Made quick note to find bag of seed again in mid-December and with a family of mice nesting on it.

4. Wrote a list enumerating all the wonderful perks of owning a 1/3 acre of dirt as opposed to a 1/3 acre of grassy lawn. Convinced myself after no. 3: Making mud buffets keeps kids quiet for hours.

5. Found a dead squirrel under yew. Dug squirrel grave with my eyebrows.

6. Ate more ibuprofen.

-----------------

How's your Spring going?

PBN Review: The Zula Patrol DVD

2008-03-26T01:51:00.025-04:00

A few weeks ago, the fine women at Parent Bloggers Network sent me a DVD of the PBS kids' show, The Zula Patrol, and asked that I give it a watch, and then give it to my kids to watch, and then let everyone, oh just everyone, know what we all thunk about it.

I am very glad to do this.

First, reviewing The Zula Patrol gives me something to blog about other than my adorable husband and my crotchety kids.

Second, it gives me some practice writing reviews for things and stuff and flotsam and jetsam, and practice is what I need since I intend to soon ~~begin working on~~ unveil my super-duper review blog. Aaaaaaannnnny day now.

Third, it gives me something to blog about other than my crotchety husband and my adorable kids.

(There's only so much crotchety any readership should have to endure.)

Fourth, I do so enjoy and treasure my own opinions and, really, don't get enough opportunity to state them out loud over and over and over again. This is a great tragedy for all humanity, as far as I'm concerned, and - in my further opinion - this tragedy should be the main topic of either one of the Democratic nominee's next nationally televised speeches: Why More People Should Listen to Madame Jozet's Opinion On Just About Everything (I will admit to not having a opinion on "shopping cart" versus "buggy", but that's about it.)

And so, without further ado...

The Zula Patrol: Explore Space! DVD

Let's not reinvent the wheel here. Instead of telling you the gist of the series in my own words, i.e. plagiarizing the back of the DVD box, let's move right on to direct quotes:

Blast off with The Zula Patrol as they travel the galaxies in a quest for universal knowledge, scientific discovery and pizza, all the while exploring the wonders of science and astronomy. Join our wacky crew on a series of space exploration missions as Multo sends a probe to a far away Planet, Bula's replacement, a robot, goes through Astronaut training at The Zula Academy, Dark Truder attempts to put his own nefarious spin on all of the Solar System's Moons and Gorga and the Moon reflect on their past days moonlighting as circus performers.

My first opinion: "Planet" and "Astronaut" probably don't need to be capitalized. Sorry. I'm just a hard ass that way.

This particular DVD runs a total of 57 minutes and is comprised of four different episodes each with the theme of exploring space. Uh...thus the title. That isn't too obvious, eh?

The topics covered were astronauts, moons, space probes, and another one about the moon. Two episodes about moons. But what kid doesn't love moons? You really just can't hear enough about moons. Did you know that one of the planets has two potato-shaped moons? I learned that on The Zula Patrol.

And that's what The Zula Patrol is about: learning stuff. It's another in PBS' long line of children's programming that's more than just mindless entertainment and kooky-colored brain candy that will rot your cerebral cortex; it's boob tube with an objective beyond "I've seen the show and now I want the lunch box and the t-shirt and the plush character doll and a weekend at the animated-television-show-based theme park in Orlando where I'll buy more lunch boxes and t-shirts and plush character dolls!"

Uh-oh. I'm not sounding like one of those "television is the work of the Beelzebub " types, am I?

Before I go any further, let me stand up right here and place my hand over my heart and pledge my undying love and dedication and allegiance to television and its important sanity-saving role as 30-minute-interval babysitter. Without television, dinner would never get prepped. Without television, this blog would never get written. Without television, I'd have to drink enormous pots of caffeinated coffee each day so that all my bathroom visits would be more...expedient. It is true that up until a few weeks ago, our family had no cable or broadcast television, but that was mostly a matter of finances; in this interim, however, I went four years without using the bathroom. It's true.

Now, back to the review...

From The Zula Patrol website:

The only 3D/CG animated children's show that focuses on the important curriculum of science and astronomy, The Zula Patrol is an entertaining and educational TV series that combines zesty family entertainment with proven educational elements. With a secondary goal of encouraging core values of non-violence and tolerance, the show encourages whole-family participation and interest in learning about science and astronomy, in a fun, comic style. American Public Television will begin distribution of the TV series to its Public Broadcasting Station affiliates starting in fall 2005.
The Zula Patrol is designed to appeal to:
Children (Pre-Kindergarten-2nd Grade), the target audience for the comical denizens of Zula who, during the course of a typical show, will learn interesting and critical facts about the universe, galaxy, and solar system in which they live;
Teachers, who will be provided with an interactive educational tool to help introduce science and astronomy concepts to young children; and,
Beleaguered parents, who are desperate for nonviolent family entertainment and a way to explore the world of science and astronomy with their children.

Oh, I'm beleagured, alright.

My middle child, Seconda, is six years old and is The Zula Patrol target audience.

She was thrilled to sit and watch a cartoon in the middle of the day, even moreso because Mommy was going to sit and watch with her instead of stand in the kitchen and curse the carrots for not chopping themselves. So, right off the bat, she was an easy sell.

She immediately fell in love with the character Gorga.

Gorga is a space...pet...animal...creature...thing. I'm getting a little hung up here already. All the characters are sentient outer space beings of some sort - not human, that's for sure - and Gorga is an alien creature, too...but obviously Gorga is of some lower "pet caste", even though he communicates with his own language and can make flashlights and fish nets appear from the end of his snout. This hierarchy of species makes me very uncomfortable, my coming from a generation and liberal mindset that coined the term "animal companions" in an attempt to deal with our guilt over evolving toward an opposable thumb and the ability to really relax into a shampoo and a pedicure. I mean, the other characters and Gorga communicate with each other through spoken language, and Captain Bula and Molto empathize with Gorga's emotions, but I kept sensing a bipedal versus quadrupedal dichotomy of validated experience that suggested that two-footed upright aliens were somehow the dominant species in this imaginary world even in spite of immediate objective evidence favoring of the actuality of all the show's aliens having comparable levels of higher consciousness, a similar capacity for social interaction established by ritual, ethics and norms, and equal ability to use technology. It was both uncomfortable and discomfiting to consider.

My daughter just thought Gorga was very, very cute.

See, this is why the target audience is six year olds and not middle-aged pseudo-intellectuals.

Other areas where Seconda and I differed in our opinion on The Zula Patrol:

I thought that the computer animation looked a little AutoCAD 101. Seconda didn't mind the un-finessed motion and clunky, glaring backdrops. Looks like one of us has been watching "too much" Pixar and has become a bit of a ~~snob~~ connoisseur.
I got freaked by the evil robot space clowns in the Three Ringed Gorga episode and had to sleep with the lights on for three nights. The six-year-old thought the clowns were hilarious and noted "evil robot space clown" in her journal of potential future Halloween costumes.
I rolled my eyes at the obvious and over-the-top deus ex machina ending to the first episode. Seconda recommended that I get over myself and stop trying to ruin her childhood and rhetorically wondered whether I didn't I have carrots to go scream at in the kitchen?

We did agree on the following:

The villain, Dark Truder, was derivative (my word, not hers) of some of Tim Burton's more ghoulish Nightmare Before Christmas characters; however, as we are both big fans of Tim Burton, this likeness was added on the plus side.
Dark Truder's talking hairpiece was inspired comedy hearkening back to the very best Sid and Marty Krofft Lidsville episodes.
The new found knowledge that there are moons shaped like potatoes makes for some kick-ass (her word, not mine) "In your face, Einstein!" trivia.
The factual scientific tidbits interspersed within a narrative that utilized imaginary talking planets and evil robot space clowns was not jarring or confusing. By 6 years old, most kids are developmentally able to separate fact from fiction, and by 41 years old most adults no longer have a psychological hair-trigger when it comes to experiencing flashbacks from their college undergrad days experimenting with "herbal" brownies and freaking out at Dead shows. In other words, I was - after all - able to enjoy the whimsy.

Seconda watched the entire 57 minutes in rapt enjoyment. And then she asked to watch it again.

I asked her if she "learned anything" and she did, in fact, quote information about astronauts and space probes and actually remembered the names of the potato-shaped moons.

Now, I don't know whether she needed a 57-minute animated show to teach her that information, but I ask you - since when is watching television about needing anything other than some fun down time for kids and some coveted solo bathroom time for parents? If the kid is happening to learn a little science trivia at the same time - as well as honing their comedy chops via a talking wig - then that's the vegetable-laced icing on the brain dessert.

Mom's Rating: 3 Bleenies out of 5
Kid's Rating: 5 Bleenies out of 5

(I'll explain the Bleenies later.)

Blog, Interrupted

2008-03-18T22:49:00.005-04:00

So, for the past two days, there have been men running around in my backyard with large, loud, jackhammering things....

I suppose those would be, uh, jackhammers....

and they are digging holes all over the durn place.

No, they are not hunting gophers, nor are they just a bunch of nice guys putting a swimming pool in my backyard just because they think I'm swell and they can't think of anyone more deserving of a free swimming pool.

No, they are digging up the old phone lines and putting in new phone lines.

In theory, this will be a good thing. I am imagining crystal clear conversations with my friend in Des Moines during which I will not only be able to more fully enjoy her dulcet tones, but also be able to pinpoint from 1,500 miles exactly which molar she is picking at in an attempt to remove the remains of her morning's breakfast. That's clarity the phone companies just don't advertise often enough.

On the downside, my Internet has been splotchy. I'm hoping that when all this tinkering and jackhammering is over with, I'll have whiz-bang, lightning speed downloads and that I'll be able to upload blog posts just by thinking about them.

In the meantime, I'm typing quickly and crossing my fingers that the connection stays connected until I hit the "Publish Post" button.

-----------------------

In other news, I live in Pennsylvania.

Well, that's not the news.

What is the news is that Pennsylvania - in spite of scheduling its Democratic primary so that we'd be more or less left out of the undesirable position of having to actually get out of our comfy chairs and go vote, trusting instead that the good folks of California and New Hampshire would know what's best for us because, hey, they weren't wrong about Die Hard 4 or Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream -

in spite of all that, I'm going to have to get out of my comfy chair in April and go vote in the primary.

And now I have to pay attention to what's going on in the campaigns because my vote might possibly mean something.

And now that I've been paying attention to the campaigns for the past few days, I'm just thoroughly confused.

I thought that - if I had to vote in the primary - it was going to be an easy choice between the uppity chick and the hunky guy, and that depending on where I was in my menstrual cycle, my vote would be made for me: ovulation = hunky guy; PMS = uppity chick.

Heh...just kidding. If only it were that easy.

However, from the looks of things on the news and The Internets, the decision is going to take even more deciding on my part than I had originally planned, and I'm going to have to wipe the drool and oatmeal off my face, turn down the Backyardigans soundtrack, and fire up the old brain, don the old thinking cap...uh....some other metaphor for having to exercise my mind.

Geraldine Ferraro is roosting chickens in her home? Obama's preacher is driving down the stock market? Bill wants me to send him $5.00 to bail out hookers? What?

See what happens when your Internet is down?

It's all so confusing.

You wake up one day and the world has gone nutty, and all of a sudden your vote counts and counts big, but instead of a clear view of the individual issues, you're hit full-force with a whole lot of campaign pie in the face, and the next thing you know you're making the trek down to the polling place where you end up buying quarts of bean soup and pans of church lady brownies and between the pie and the brownies, you've put back on the 10 pounds you lost during Lent, and you still have eight months to go before the general elections.

Ah well. At least I haven't had to field any phone calls from pollsters, yet.

And no canvassers.

There was a young man with a clipboard at our front door this morning, but it was just someone from Chem-Lawn letting us know that our neighbors had sent him to our house for a landscaping intervention. I let him know that we liked our front dirt just fine and that, no, I wouldn't be voting for Martha Stewart, so just back the hell off.

nataliedee.com

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Well, that's the quick report from Chateau Halushki.

Hopefully, the new phone lines will be up and whirring very soon, and I can rejoin civilization.

In the meantime, someone get the candidates all sorted out on this messy chicken roosting thing so that I can do my critical thinking all in one afternoon and get back to my comfy chair.

Thanks!

Mommy Gets Pwned

2008-03-13T11:48:00.004-04:00

Mommy: (driving minivan on way to gymnastics, pounding on steering wheel)

'Cause I'm TNT, I'm dynamite!
TNT and blah buh mumble mumba FIGHT!
TNT I'm a power bluh mumba!
TNT WATCH ME EXPLODE!

Child 1: Mommy, would you turn that music down?

Mommy: Why? Is it too EXCELLENT for you, little dudette?

Child 1: No.

Mommy: Is Mommy ROCKIN' too hard for ya?!

Child 1: No.

Mommy: Is ACDC blowing your mind?! Oi! Oi! Oi!

Child 1: No, Mommy.

Mommy: Well?

Child1: It's just really annoying.

Child 2: (piping up from far back of van) Yeah, annoying.

Mommy:

Child 1: And you sing kinda loud.

Child 2: Yeah. Kinda loud...and bad.

Mommy: But...but it's..rock and...roll.

Child 1: (explaining patiently) Yeah. But old people rock and roll.

Child 2: Yeah. Not like kids listen to.

Mommy: Hmm.

Child 2: (brightly) Maybe you could listen to it while we're at school!

Mommy: Hmmmmmmmm.

This Is A Test

2008-03-09T22:15:00.020-04:00

I'm going to say a word or phrase, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind.

Ready?

Let's go!

"One hundred pre-teen girls together in one room"

Okay, what was your immediate response? Be honest now.

Did your response include any of the following:

a) Oy with the giggling already.
b) Oy with the whining already.
c) Hannah Montana Concert. Has to be.
d) AHHHHHHHHHH!

Let's try another.

"One hundred pre-teen girls altogether in one room, and wearing fancy costume dresses and make-up."

How about this time? Did you say

a) Oy with the giggling and whining
b) I'm a little afraid
c) Club Libby Lu convention. Has to be.
d) At no time should I reveal my credit card; they might pounce.

How about another? Don't worry. All will be revealed shortly.

"One hundred pre-teen girls wearing fancy costume dresses and make-up, all getting ready to compete against each other."

a) Little Miss Sunshine competition. Has to be.
b) Uh oh...that means that the stage moms must be near-by.
c) I am very afraid.
d) Oy with the attitudes and whining. I liked them better when they were giggling.

Last one! You're almost done!

"One hundred pre-teen girls wearing fancy costume dresses and make-up, all getting ready to compete against each other by lacing-up white boots with 4 mm wide blades on the bottom and then proceeding to propel their pre-pubescent bodies at literally breakneck speeds across a sheet of ice on just those thin blades and sometimes leaping into the air, twirling blindly, landing backwards onto one foot, onto that 4 mm wide blade, with other leg extended and arms outstretched like swallows' wings, still speeding along on the frozen rink, and doing it all with grace and style and in time to thrilling excerpts from Sound of Music. Or to a tarantella. Or to any of the hundreds of Disney songs.

a) Uhhhhh... What now?
b) Oh! I get it! Figure Skating.
c) Oy with the steel pipes to the knees!
d) Hey...I've always meant to ask this to someone in the know: What the hell is a salchow, anyway?

Well, before I became an insider to the fabulous world of local figure skating competitions, I too was a little nervous at the prospect of being in close quarters with large numbers of young girls who were all getting ready to compete individually against each other in just about anything: figure skating, gymnastics, Tiddly-Winks...you name it.

Add costumes, hairspray, glittery eyeshadow, and a whole bunch of anxious moms, and I'd have guessed that the potential for comedy, tragedy, and a whole bunch of bitching would be just about 101%

I was wrong.

Very happily wrong.

Evidently, I shouldn't get all my information from movies and after school specials.

One hundred young ladies got glitzed-up and glammed-up and then put months of hard work, heart - and a little bit of chutzpah - on display in front of a darn big crowd of family and friends and let's not forget the judges.

I don't know about you, but when I was nine years old, if anyone asked me whether I wanted to perform solo Cirque De Soleil-like tricks in front of an audience and then receive scores on my artistic performance and athletic ability, I would have crawled into my closet and hid there until I turned fifteen. Which is what I did anyway, come to think of it.

But at last Saturday's competition, there were no abrasive stage moms. No whining ice princesses. No rush and holler from the grown-ups in the attempt to get all those girls on and off the ice and stick to a very exact schedule.

Instead, at last Saturday's competition I heard tween-age girls cheering and clapping for their friends, the friends of their friends, and even for the girls they didn't know very well. I saw parents and coaches give hugs and high-fives and enthusiastic pre-ice words of "Good luck!" and "You'll do great!" and, possibly most importantly, "Just go have fun!" I saw girls skate and spin and twirl and leap across the ice with strong bodies and nerves of steel, and if you've never seen a kid fall on her kiester in front of the whole world only to get back up again, pretend it didn't happen, and continue skating to the end of her program, then you don't know what chutzpah looks like, let me tell you.

And just so that I'm not one-sided - and to be honest and fair - I must also tell you that there were a few boys in the mix at this particular Basic Skills Competition. And although it might seem like a middle school-aged boy's fantasy to be one of the few guys in a room full of middle school-aged girls, I'm guessing that it actually takes much bravery of a different sort just step foot into the sparkle-diva sanctum sanctorum with your black figure skates standing out against all that spit-shined white.

However, a grand time was had by all, at least from where I sat. If there were any sulky or sad moments, the sulking was done out of the spotlight. Although, who could blame a kid for getting a little sulky or sad? Our local competition was, I assume, comparatively low key compared to the anxiety build-up before and melt-down after a bigger competition. But still...they're just kids. It's not often that people do the hard work of finding out what they're made of and who they are, and frankly, if I had half the chance, I'd tell each and every kid who competed - even the sulky ones - that just saying, "I'm going to give it a try" is a very strong first sentence in the story of themselves.

At the end of the competition, all the children skated onto the ice together one more time. They were tired, hungry, and beginning to get cold. Some of the kids huddled around their friends, keeping each other warm. Other girls skated along the far side of the rink, jumping and twirling and spinning in pirouettes...just because. Just because it was fun.

And then, one by one, every skater who competed that day was called by name to come forward and don their individual medals, while other gracious gals and guys also received their first-place trophies. Then they got in a big group and smiled and waved to their parents' flashing cameras - and on the count of three, they all shouted a boisterous victory hurrah.

The competition was officially over.

A few skaters took once last twirl, and finally, everyone skated off the ice together.

Some of them giggling like a bunch of little girls.

I may look cute,
but if you try to take my medal,
I'll beat you with these tea roses.

Killing Fairies

2008-03-03T22:57:00.018-05:00

One of the most important responsibilities - nay, obligations - of any parent is, I think, to encourage our children's daily awareness of all that is magical and mysterious in our great, big fantastical world.

And, yes, I am a hippie.

To point our children toward a sly glimpse of the crystalline fairies in a drop of dew....

To wonder in awe at Titan voices booming across the evening sky during a summer thunderstorm....

To marvel at orchestras captured on silver discs, musicians trapped like microscopic genies to be released in song only at the listener's wish and command....

Ah bliss! Ah joy!

To support and stimulate their creative selves and thusly nourish their hearts and souls with the food of poets and saints!

(And I'm not talking cigarettes and day-old baguettes.)

But, as a bittersweet fact of life, every day my children grow a bit older and, so too, a bit too wise for the world's magic.

Mostly, I blame science.

(That honeymoon was over quickly.)

One golden-hued afternoon, my girls are sitting on their bed happily naming the angels they insist they can see dancing on the head of a pin. The following week, they're discussing the atomic force microscope and how the sharp point of the carbon nanotube would determine once and for all whether and how many angels were actually boogying down, even though the super sharp point would probably poke the bejeezus out of most of the angels such that from thence forward, angels would stay the hell off pinheads altogether and begin dancing on clouds, where they belong. Although, then they'd remind me that in their lesson on the weather, they learned that clouds were made mostly of condensed water droplets and could probably support the weight of a few very small celestial beings, but not an entire host of seraphim because, c'mon, six wings each? The whole shebang is becoming suspect.

It doesn't matter when I point out that no one actually knows how heavy a seraphim is: my kids are on a quest to figure it out.

And somewhere, someplace, a fairy sheds a tear.

I could tell them, warn them, implore them - Don't look at the man behind the curtain! Don't figure how Santa gets to every house in the world in one evening, even after adjusting the formula for Jewish kids and cranky anti-consumerists! Don't stay up late and try to catch the "Tooth Fairy" in her bathrobe and Pond's facial cream masque! Don't question the lack of causation and faulty correlation between mommy's big tummy and large white birds with messenger caps! Keep the magic! Vive le mystery!

But the little stinkers are like curious cats batting Tinker Bell's tiny body across the kitchen floor - a soft, sad jingle barely audible as she rolls under the refrigerator and her limp little arms and legs come to rest against a dust bunny and a dry noodle.

The shame of it all is that I was just getting good at being their Field Director of Whimsy. Prima would write a two page letter to the Tooth Fairy asking what she looked like, what she did on her days off, and most importantly, what the heck did she do with all those teeth? And the Tooth Fairy would reply with photos and gilded pages and purple prose printouts explaining in detail all the magical happenings in Fairyland - how Prima's first lost tooth would be used to crown the newest fairy princess baby; how other teeth would be polished and fashioned into lanterns and bells for the autumn harvest festival; and, how in Fairyland, Prima and her sister were known each by their own fanciful fairy names - Juniper Icedancer and Feather Elfdancer.

One night, the Tooth Fairy forgot to make her visit and a tooth was unexpectedly found the next morning still under the pillow. A note later appeared explaining that because the family cat was reclining on Prima's bed, the Tooth Fairy couldn't retrieve the wee lower incisor. And the reason she couldn't go into the room to grab the tooth was because, evidently, when a cat sees a fairy, the cat begins to sing. Loudly. And because waking the entire house with a singing cat just wouldn't do, the Tooth Fairy had to abort attempts to retrieve the package and try again another night.

My daughters believed.

And the next night, the cat was locked in the basement.

And the Tooth Fairy arrived as originally planned and finished the job at hand.

That's not to say that as they wield their microscopes and telescopes and National Geographic Kids and It's So Amazing to debunk their own childhood illusions and denude one apple tree after another, that they aren't at the same time beginning to occasionally take a glance backward with - if not quite regret - then their own bittersweet understanding that they are propelling themselves through realms of reality, barely slamming one door closed as they race through the next. That they can't stop themselves. That they shouldn't stop themselves, but that at the same time, when they do now go searching for fairies and even monsters under the bed, the sightings are becoming a little more infrequent. Not impossible to track and stalk...but...tricky.

I do my best to manufacture a little magic in my own way. Keep them guessing. Keep them on their toes when they get a bit too sure that they know what's around every corner, what's through the next door. Just to keep their poetic toes a dancing. Just to help put a drag on once in a while least they suddenly find themselves too soon too grown-up with a job and a mortgage and not a whole lot of free time left to track fairies.

Sometimes I need to get creative.

"Mommy, how do you spell parallel?"

"P-a-r-a-l-l-e-l. Hey! Did you know that double l's in parallel are parallel. They could go on forever and never touch!"

"Yeah. I knew that."

"Did you know that parallel can refer to two actions happening at the same time?"

"Roll eyes. Yeah. I knew that, too."

"Did you know that the German for parallel is parallel?

"Yea...uh...well...."

"Oh no!"

"What?"

"Oh no oh no!"

"What? What?"

"I completely forgot."

"What?!"

"Sigh. That part about the German for parallel being parallel...that was the last thing I was supposed to teach you before you turned 18 and were ready to leave for college. Drat."

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh. That was the last thing on the list. I guess you'll have to skip middle school and high school and go right to U. Penn next fall."

"Nuh-uh. There's no such thing as a list."

"Oh sure. When you were born in the hospital, they gave me a list of things I was supposed to tell you and that the teachers wouldn't cover in school. I was supposed to refer to list and go in order. They were very specific in telling me I had to go in order. Oh well. You'll figure out canasta and how to separate reds and whites when doing laundry on your own."

"Really? Did they really give you a list?"

"Absolutely. The last thing I checked off was 'Teach your child how to make toast.' Remember? We did that last week."

"Really?"

"Oh. Sure.

"Really, really?"

"Sure. Now just don't tell your sister about parallel. You're going to love college. Eh-hem."

"I'm going to ask Daddy. That doesn't sound right."

And somewhere, someplace, a fairy heaves herself off the floor, brushes the cat slobber off her skirt, and flitters away with a sly smile...and a jingly jangly flip of the bird.

For Your Friday Viewing Pleasure

2008-02-29T16:58:00.003-05:00

Several species of furry animals gathered together in a cave and grooving with pict.

Heh.

That's a joke between me and Roger Waters.

But seriously, what is it with me and music videos featuring women who sing with an accent?

Oh...and the large furries.

I am so not totally into that kind of lifestyle. I'm much more the straight-laced, Anne of Green Gables type.

For instance, I do NOT have the Big Girl Webkinz site bookmarked.

And that is NOT the UPS guy walking up the drive with my Fleegle costume.

Nosireethankyouverymuch.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you.

It's just that one time I had to wear a bobble-head Clifford costume for an event at the bookstore, and let me tell you, the smell of hot scalp sweat is overwhelming inside those things. And I understand that some folks might find that smell of twice-baked sebum to be a romantic turn on...

Mickey Mouse, for one...

but, I'll pass.

Out.

And yet my fascination with people in stuffed animal costumes. I'll just never understand myself, in spite of $12,000 worth of therapy.

Enjoy!

Do You Believe In Science?

2008-02-22T14:17:00.009-05:00

Here at Chateau Halushki, we're all gaa-gaa about Science.

See here:

My kids drink out of beakers, not sippy cups.

I use a Bunsen Burner to warm their Ovaltine every morning.

And Terzo's first word was "Copernicus", I swear to...

uh...

I swear to...Richard Dawkins.

Eh-hem. Boy, that was a tricky one.

So when Parent Bloggers Network put out the call to write about how we're bringing Science back to our kids, well, the question for us was moot. And the answer redundant. And the answer redundant.

Bring Science back?

Well Jumping Ibn al-Haytham! It's never left!

See, I have an absolute adoration for and infatuation with Science. It's like Science is a tight-jeaned, sandy-haired teen idol from 1977 singing its number one cover of "Da Doo Ron Ron", and I'm a giggly girl with a retainer and a pair of Earth Shoes and a copy of Judy Blume's Forever hidden under my mattress. Omigod, I, like, wanna marry Science and have, like, a million of its babies! Science is just so dreamy and cute!

And I think - scratch that - I know that my love of Science is just spilling over onto my kids like a bucketful of Tab Cola .

Here's a sampling of some of the many things I say throughout that day that become just one, long ooey-gooey fan letter to Science.

"Hey kids, if you love Pop Rocks, thank a chemist!"

"Listen to me girls: Boyfriends come and boyfriends go, but I could never live in a world without Novocaine."

"Did you know that in many languages the word for God and the word for duct tape is the same?"

Ah, Science...swoon. Making my life both livable and worth living.

And now, thanks to Parent Blogger Network, I find out that there is a new online science newsletter just for kids called Zula Intergalactic Inquirer.

And guess what? My kids had a good ole time noodling around on the Zula website this afternoon. That's saying quite a bit coming from a couple of kids who usually use all their allotted computer time on that stuffed animal site.

Me?

I'm going to post the link right over my bed so I can stare at it every night before I go to sleep.

OOOOohhhhhh! Science! Do you even know I exist?