American Gothic

The Princess and The Dictator interpret a classic.

The Play's the Thing

Husband and I took the girls to their first touring production of a Broadway play yesterday.

Wicked.

Very much enjoyed it. I remember going to see a production of "Annie" at Heinz Hall in Pittsburgh when I was 9 years old. The excitement of being dressed up and seeing a show. The frustration of my Girl Scout leader because I left my purse at the seat and had to go back up into the theater to find it.

I could have cried with joy at taking my daughters to a show -- another looping of the cycle of life, having the girls there and my being the grown up.

I had my moment of frustration before the show started -- when The Princess was telling me what I am not allowed to do and I snapped at her. I wasn't feeling well at all yesterday and was so worried that I wouldn't be able to make it to or through the show. That was not the time for her to tell me I was not allowed to take another picture with my cell phone. The next few years are going to be tough going, with this willful daughter who knows how to push my buttons.

But looking over during the show, I saw smiles and wonder and excitement. (And I did apologize to her for the way I spoke to her, as much as I also told her how it's not acceptable for her to tell her mother what to do.)

The Dictator, ever the anesthetic, always knows when to turn up the sweetness to counteract the crabby Princess. She enjoyed herself, too.

Oh, these girls. The drama! Just like a play.

Entertainment

"Tired of winding yourself up every morning? Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help." said The Princess, at the dinner table last night.

"Talk to your doctor to see if Cymbalta is right for you." replied The Dictator.

Husband and I agreed on several points:

1. The girls have been watching too much TLC and Lifetime.

2. We are both extremely relieved that The Dictator's medical disclaimer did not include the text, "If you experience an erection lasting more than 4 hours, seek immediate medical assistance."

3. We are ever so glad that we're taking the girls to a touring production of a Broadway musical this afternoon. They need some new material!

Out into the Madness

It's 5:26 a.m. and both The Dictator and The Princess are up and waiting for me to finish my coffee.

We're going out into the shopping madness.

But only to get $7 snow boots. And laugh at the madness.

Pennsylvania and Some Homemade Pumpkin Pie

The line from The Carpenter's song "No Place Like Home for the Holidays" that talks about meeting a man who was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie -- that's the line that gets me every time.

Husband and I alternate years for Thanksgiving between Pennsylvania and my family and Ohio and his family. This is an Ohio year.

And regardless of the fact that I enjoy cooking for his family -- and the fact that we just went to Pennsylvania a few weeks ago to visit -- I always get a little homesick on Ohio Thanksgivings.

Usually, the first line of defense in combating the homesickness is for me to go to 9 am Mass. Because I know that my parents are no doubt at 9 am Mass back in Pennsylvania. The same prayers, the same ritual, but it's not the same.

(My parents are really good people and it's a great honor to them that the first place I seek when I'm missing them -- the place I know I'll feel close to them -- is church.)

But.

But the music is so not the same.

But I don't usually see very many of our friends -- our Thanksgiving Mass here is really paltry.

But they don't do a food collection for the poor.

But. But.

Second line of defense is to call them. Often. Repeatedly. For various reasons both real and manufactured.

My meat thermometer really did break. But I've called there three times today and last night, too. I think they see through me.

My middle brother goes through it, too. I can tell. Because he calls me. And texts me. And makes sure to reference our traditions -- he does this especially at Christmas, when for days I can predict what he'll text me to say or call to remind me about. It's a new spin on our old traditions -- ways to touch back to them from afar.

I wonder what my girls, years from now, will view as their holiday traditions. What dish will they have to have in order for it to feel like Thanksgiving? Will they call each other? Me?

What song will make them cry?

So Thankful

Glad to wake up today and have it feel like a normal Thanksgiving.

• We are in our house that, back in February. we were afraid we might lose.
  
  
• Husband and I are both on days off from work, from jobs that we were blessed to find in the middle of the employment crisis in this country and in our household.
  
  
• We have plenty of food, a warm house, healthy children, and a strong faith.
  
  
• We kept our sense of humor in a year where we didn't always feel like laughing and quite often, felt like crying.

Through it all, our mantra was "We will be fed; we won't be homeless; we will be together."

And together we are.

Well, Excuuuuuse Me!

Wow, I thought I knew fashion.

"Hey, Dictator, I really like your argyle sweater!" said The Faithful Alligator.

"Huh? Argyle?" queried The Dictator.

"You know, the sweater with the diamonds on it" came the reply.

"Actually, they're parallelograms."


My bad.

Brain Power

The Dictator: "You know what I wish we had? An alphabet with pictures for the letters."

Faithful Alligator: "The ancient Egyptians had one of those."

Dictator: "Lucky!"

Not so much

So, Johnny Depp is on the cover of People magazine as the Sexiest Man Alive.

Seriously?

I don't think anyone who perpetually looks like he needs to take a shower can even qualify as remotely sexy.

I'm just saying.

Snippet

I've been remembering a story lately -- one from my 2nd or 3rd grade reader. It's an Asian fable, I thought Japanese. I remember a lot of it, including the illustrations. Unfortunately, none of what I felt were the key words were enough to find any semblance of it through Google.

I'm going to get philosophical, having only had 1/4 cup of coffee. It's foggy here this morning and my brain is the same. I hope this makes sense.

Aren't people and past friendships like my remembering that story?

I have friends who I feel I remember a lot about -- I remember our friendship and key times that we spent together; I remember my perception of our failures or fights; I remember snippets of how I felt for them, how they made me feel, what we meant to each other.

But it all boils down to this: I'm not sure my key words are enough that I'd find "us" on Google.

Did I take away enough of the right words, feelings, memories?

What would they find if they googled me?

Faith in Science

I know that it takes an incredible faith in science and technology to allow yourself to be strapped into a rocket and launched into space. And to stay in space for a few months before you get to go home. The astronauts that remain on the ISS and have to watch out the window as their ride un-docks and heads back to earth while they are still floating in orbit -- well, they are extremely courageous and true pioneers.

That being said -- Dude, they REALLY trust science and technology.

Case in point: the photo below is of several residents of the International Space Station about to drink their own urine recycled into drinking water. I love that the man on the left is smiling all enthusiastically and the man on the right looks WAY more wary! Man in the middle is totally hiding and probably only pretended to drink it.

(A new version of "I didn't inhale" ??)

Husband and I were having our own little caption contest for this picture. Most of it centered around variations of the makers of the urine recycler not translating the documents into Japanese.

Probably shouldn't have said that . . .

So, last night I ran into a woman I worked with for years -- she's still working at the old place of employment.

She didn't know if I was working or not.

I told her about my new job and that I got to still work my 30 hour weeks and all. And how it's a lot less stress. And then, the final jab -- how I'm making more money now than I was at my old job, after 14 years.

I probably shouldn't have said that. But, it's nice to feel like I made out pretty okay in this whole deal -- that, other than missing my friends there and the 25 days of vacation/sick time, I landed just fine. Thank you. Nice to feel like I've gotten out from under the pity.

But, still. Shouldn't have said it. She's still stuck in the stress and the worry.

It's the Thought That Counts

The Dictator worked furiously the other day on a project -- and I could tell that she was trying to finish it before anyone noticed what it was.

[She got the idea from something she saw on a TV show that she thought was funny. And she is ever the child to want to take some of that funny and rub it on herself!]

Presented to Husband: a plastic cup-turned-pencil holder that reads

"#1 Dad. #2 Pencils."

In Celebration of Global Warming

The weather has been unseasonably mild here of late. For November -- mid-November and Ohio -- it has been stupendous.

I have yet to see a snow flurry this year. We've had temperatures in the 50s, 60s, and even 70s in the past few weeks. Sunny, blue skies and a scattering of clouds. Gorgeous.

Husband said that, if this is global warming, he's going to run through the streets with a giant can of Aqua Net in each hand, spraying and screaming "Woo Hoo!"

Don't tell Al Gore.

After School Special

Today, I have the distinct pleasure of picking The Princess up from school. I get to pick her up because she can't ride the bus home this afternoon.

"Why not?" you ask.

Oh, that. She has detention.

Substitute Teacher on Friday slapped a bunch of detentions on the cocky, confident 7th graders in Advanced English. The Princess was just *certain* that her hero, er, uh, teacher, upon his return to class Monday, would remove the detentions from all parties involved.

Not so much.

"Disrespectful to Substitute" and she's got detention and consequences at home, too.

Grounded for THREE WHOLE DAYS from texting and calling. Nice new phone, Princess. Too bad it's off limits until Friday.

The real story lies somewhere between "disrespectful to substitute" and "All I did was ask my friend to pick up my pencil off the floor." But that doesn't matter as much as the message that we are NOT going to tolerate detentions, disrespect, and her getting labeled as a trouble maker.

It's those quiet ones you've got to watch!

It's Called Sarcasm

Sitting in a meeting the other day, I was asking a co-worker about his trip to California last year. He said that his family had done the Beverly Hills/Hollywood touristy thing for a day or so.

"We even drove right by Michael Jackson's house and all the paparazzi at the gate just a few days before he died!" said the very serious scientist.

"Wait, he died?" said the very sarcastic English major.

Crickets. Crickets chirped, I tell you!

My sarcasm does not translate so much at work. It did make for a very laughter filled conversation during the evening meal, because even The Dictator got my joke!!!

Outside, On Purpose

We had a cookout last night -- complete with S'mores and hotdogs and college football. We sat around the fire pit and I was outside, on purpose!

That's because, when it's 65 degrees in NOVEMBER (in OHIO), you have to take advantage of it. And the best part: since there's already been a hard frost, NO MOSQUITOES!!!!

Why I Won't EVER Be a Stage Mom

This, at least, is something

Not sure which funny or profound observation from the children to write about. They slip through my mind so quickly from one day to the next. That, truly, is the real reason for this blog -- to capture the magic moments I so adore about my children and being their mom in hope that someday they'll be so glad to have the record.

I don't have a page scrapbooked. I have pictures in albums up to 2002, maybe, and the rest in a box. All without captions.

"and his mother kept all these things in her heart" -- Luke 2:51

I'm not proclaiming my children divine. Just recognizing in Mary what mothers know: the urge and sweetness of holding a child's life and antics and sticky hugs and trusting eyes and words and stories in our hearts. And, sometimes, a blog.

Flash of Color

A quick impression, an image -- in our neighborhood of all neutral beige and white houses, with the bare trees and heavy frost and early morning light, THIS: the flash of fire from the young trees that ring the tree lawns. The color in the midst of the subdued rest of my view reminds me of the black and white pictures of my mother that my great-grandmother used to color just a hint of blush or pink lips onto.

I'll Be Alright Without You

The last Social Studies test, the one I helped The Princess study for: 72%.

Yesterday's Social Studies test, the one I did NOT help The Princess study for: 87%.

My work here is done.

Landslide

As much as we're living in an electronic society, why did I just spend over an hour just sorting through the papers that have accumulated since last week? I believe the word I'm searching for is "detritus" -- debris, a product of destruction or wearing away.

Hmmmm. It's wearing away my sanity. And it's a product of the destruction wrought from two girls emptying out their book bags and folders from PSR and school; the junk mail and coupons and magazines (oh, I believe I bring that trouble on myself); and my lists -- the lists I make for myself every day.

I found bottom except for the need to buy stamps and pay a few more bills once Friday's pay day rolls around. Just too tired to pay them tonight and no need until later, anyway.

I just sent away for ANOTHER magazine subscription. And ordered TWO MORE from The Dictator's school sale. Every airline mile I've ever earned I've used to get magazines. Same for Husband's airline miles.

At least I do read most of them -- and recycle them. But I need to stop the landslide! Right after I read that new Martha Stewart "Living".

Call back in 4 years

Dear Universe,

Thanks for calling. But The Princess is only 12. She is not allowed to date until she is 16. Please call back in 4 years.

Sincerely,

The Faithful Alligator

(9th grader asked her for her phone number at the bus stop today. She was smart enough to tell him she's not allowed to give it out. Not quite smart enough to NOT tell him which house is ours. She's tall -- she looks older. This is going to get interesting.)

One Brave Lady

The Dictator was intently watching a Japanese Lady Beetle climbing around the knob on the lamp at my parents' house last night.

"Be careful; they bite" was the warning she got from both Happy Pappy and The Faithful Alligator.

No Fear at all, that one, as she weighed the balance between getting bit and scientific discovery.

Almost inaudibly came the tiny reply, as she got closer and studied it some more: "I wonder how bad it hurts . . ."

This Is What I've Been Trying to Tell You

We had conferences for The Dictator the other night. Her teacher expressed how very bright and sweet The Dictator is. She is reading 140+ correct words per minute, when 40-80 is average. We had a good discussion about how we can try to give more challenge to The Dictator -- how she's been left to be "teacher helper" and used to help struggling kids more than given a chance to learn something new for 3 years now.

I told the teacher all about the writing left handed antics of the past two years. And how she needs to watch out and not give The Dictator time to plot, wherein she will gather a band of merry men and wreak havoc. The teacher smiled and promised to send us links and ideas to challenge her further at home.

The next morning, as I was checking The Dictator's math homework, I noticed that on the back (during class) she had written her name in mirror image. Writing backwards -- that's new.

I told The Dictator to take that paper to school and show the teacher and say "This is what my mommy was talking about" -- but then she thought she was in trouble.

No, Dictator, "in trouble" is saved for if you fail to realize your full potential to say smart alecky things but convince the teacher/principal/etc. that you were just joking. (Reference: demerit March 4, 1987)

I Love You Just the Way You Are

The Princess and I were talking about self acceptance this morning as we waiting for her bus.

She had pointed out that her science teacher's daughters have thumbs like The Princess -- what the teacher termed "hammerhead" thumbs. The tips of her thumbs are short and very wide -- the "wing span" of The Princess's hands is wide and she has definitely inherited Husbands wide fingers.

I asked The Princess if her thumbs bother her. (I know they used to.)

She said "No."

I went on to say that I thought that was good, that self-acceptance is very important. And that it's also very difficult. I explained how I really don't like that my arms have more hair on them than I think they should -- and how it's pretty frustrating to be getting hair on my face, like a dude.

I quipped, "Well, maybe I should just join the circus as The Bearded Lady!"

"No no no, no way!" she was quick to respond.

"Why? Would that embarrass you?" Everything I do embarrasses that girl.

"No. It's just that if you join the circus, there would be Clowns there."

Fear of Clowns trumps Embarrassing Mother. Who knew?!?!?

Lines of Communication

After having promised The Princess that I really won't tease her anymore about NB (Neighbor Boy) -- once I got one last zinger in*, Husband made me promise the same thing.

He is worried that she won't feel as comfortable telling us things if she's teased about it.

I agree, to a point. She needs to be able to take a bit of teasing, and trust me that a mother would be WAY more gentle than a 7th grade girl would be.

The Princess just got added to our cell plan and now has UNLIMITED texting. Trust me on this, as well: I am doing EVERYTHING IN MY POWER to keep the lines of communication open with my daughter. I want her to get questions answered by me, advice from me, support from me. She does need to feel comfortable putting issues and ideas and even crushes out there, in front of me.

And I still need to be able to give only a few little gentle teases, mostly used to gauge her reaction -- so that I can be sure to know when she stops thinking boys are yucky, except for Daddy.




* How could I pass this up? -- Neighbor Boy's name rhymes with "you" -- as in, I can substitute his name in song lyrics such as "You belong with me" and "My life would suck without you". Good times!

Damn You, Daylight Savings Time!

Some day, hopefully soon, I will stop waking up at 4:30 in the morning.

Today, I forced myself to try to sleep until 4:50, but that's just because I was awake for most of the hour between 3:30 and 4:30.

Even The Princess put herself to bed at 7:45 last night.

This year, more than any other, Time Change is kicking my butt.

The Dictator Has Time to Plot

We are waiting for school to challenge The Dictator. We've been waiting for school to challenge here, for three years now.

In Kindergarten, she wrote left handed and did 3rd grade math for fun after school.

In 1st grade, she started with the left hand again. And then turned her attention to reading profusely and being the teacher's helper.

Now, she is in 2nd grade. She talks about how bored she is in school; how her favorite subject is gym and art -- they're the only classes with something new. Half of her classwork, online, says "Excluded" -- because the teacher apparently isn't making her do work if it's review work. Or if she tests high enough to start with.

We have conferences this week and will be discussing how we can get the teacher to give her different work rather than less. Nothing teaches a smart kid how to be a lazy student like excluding her from doing the work and giving her work that doesn't challenge her. When she finally does have to study, she won't know how.

My concern, too, is that the teacher is unwittingly giving The Dictator time to plot. She's bored and has plenty of time on her hands. Who knows what madness the girl could devise in the time she's excluded from math or spelling?? How long before she gets bored with being a good listener and decides to stir the pot?

I think I've determined what The Dictator has been doing so far this year to keep herself entertained -- she's exploring her musical side. Not a day goes by that I don't notice that she's humming some tune. I don't even know if she's aware of how often she does it. I have to find out if she's driving the teacher crazy with humming -- or if she's controlling it at school.

Funny thing is, Husband always talks about how he never notices the words to songs, just the melodies. The Dictator is the same way. I love being able to pinpoint characteristics and identify them with either Husband or me.

The plotting and writing left handed in school? Errr, ummm. Let's just say I plead the Fifth!

A Fashion Conscience

It's cold here today. Hard frost. 32 degrees.

The Princess has outgrown last year's winter coat -- both in size (the sleeves are too short) and in fashion ("OMG, it's PUFFY! Daddy might like puffy coats, but . . .")

So, I made her wear the warmest jacket I could find -- it's a Champion sporty jacket with fleece. Apparently not her style. And it's royal blue.

As she wiggled her arms into it, zippering it over her bright green hoodie and her volleyball t-shirt and her purple skinny jeans that run all the way down her long legs to the black high-top Chucks, I could hear her muttering.

"This feels like a sin."

Hang On; It's Going to Be a Bumpy Ride

The Princess is definitely approaching her teen years. Everyone has always said "Just you wait!" and I knew what they meant, but now we're really seeing it in evidence.

Neighbor Boy likes The Princess. He is the boy who sort of asked her to the dance and she panicked and walked away from him. He is also the boy who asked her out, point blank, and she turned heel and walked away from him, AGAIN, with no answer. The next day, the kiss of death: "I just want to be friends, Neighbor Boy."

Oh, the heartbreaker-in-training.

New Boy At School, noticing a school picture someone had: "Ooh, she's beautiful. Who's that?"
Person: "Princess"
Princess, happened to be walking by: "What?"
NBAS: grinning at her, "Wow."

We've had talks with The Princess, both about what we expect in terms of when she will be allowed to date and about how to treat boys, especially now when she thinks they are the grossest thing ever and they are noticing her. About how they have to get up the nerve to talk to her and ask her out (in 7th grade?!?!?!?) and how they face rejection -- and about how it is up to her to be nice and polite and give them an answer. (And how that answer has to be NO.)

Neighbor Boy got his seat moved on the bus -- and he happens to now sit with The Princess. Coincidence? Bribe of the bus driver? We'll never know.

Neighbor Boy came down the aisle and went to sit by The Princess.

The Princess told me, "Yeah, I told him 'Move in. You're sitting by the window!'" Goodness, she's already bossing him around.

NB turned to her and said, "I love it when you wear your hair down. It's beautiful!"

Meanwhile, she told me she had sat there and got it all figured out.

"What do you have figured out, Princess?"

"Exactly how to hold my feet on the ground so that when the bus goes around a corner, I don't accidentally bump into Neighbor Boy."