Moving On

So.

Yes, I honestly am that grumpy often! And yes the ice-cream man came back yesterday evening and yes I did make sarcastic and (very funny! Really!) irritated comments until that 8-bar refrain faded away into the distance.

Now you're really sorry for my children aren't you?

I have no segue here so we'll just leap into the real topic.

Child 2 and I were trying to impose some order on the sun-room last week. The sun room is one of those areas of the house that expresses that damn law of entropy - you know, the law that says the universe is constantly moving into chaos? That any system (say, a linen closet or a craft closet) will inevitably go from ordered to disordered. The fact that it's a law of the universe explains why it's never anyone's fault that the folded towels have become unfolded, the boxed up art supplies have spread themselves over the shelf and the hot glue gun is once again sitting on the kitchen counter with a dribble of solidified glue sticking to the surface.

I won't even try to point the finger at Child 3 who likes to go into the sun-room and listen to its i-pod while it spins in the office chair we don't have room for anywhere else and casually rummages through the storage boxes we have out there. Surely it's not its fault that there was a fine dusting of pictures, papers, beloved but outgrown toys and other important items over every surface of the room?

So Child 2 and I waded in and began grimly fighting a force of the universe - meaning we sort of stuffed everything into a box that more or less fit the description until we both got fed up and just shoved the rest out of sight.

While doing so I came across a small plastic booklet labeled "Photographs."

When Kirk and I got married we didn't have a professional photographer. Actually, we didn't have a caterer, a professional dressmaker or anything else either but that's not the point. What we did have was someone - I don't know who... my mother? racing around now and then and desperately snapping a picture here and there. Which means that just about every picture I have shows Kirk looking grim and me with my mouth open... well, except for the one with my sister where it looks like we're having this really, really special and touching sisterly moment together before I leave and really she's saying, "okay, now gimme my necklace back!"

There are only about eight pictures in the book but it was fun to come across it because now when I get emails that ask, "were you really nineteen when you got married?" I can say, yes, yes I was:



Note: Kirk however was a creaking old man of 21.

Question

It must be spring because we officially turned the furnace thermostat to zero (it was at 61 because, you know 60 would be COLD and 62 is just too wild and crazy hedonistic), the sprinklers were reprogrammed and yesterday the ice-cream man came out of hibernation and began once more trolling for sugar-fiends through the streets.

I listened to the 8 bars of tinkly, Doppler-shifted music as it cruised mournfully up our street, over a block, down the next, up again for about two hours - fading now and then but always present. And first I wondered why there haven't been any famous cases of ice-cream van drivers turning sociopathic mass-murderer. Then I decided that the sociopathic tendencies were clearly already expressed simply by being an ice-cream van driver with an 8 bar musical kiddy-lure. Then I thought of the real question as that refrain continued to drill through my brain:

Why haven't there been any famous cases of mass murderers OF ice cream van drivers?

Now, would that go under "hobbies" or "public service" on a CV?

The Sounds of Silence

Children 1 and 3 are out of town this week.

I do love them so.

But they are out of town.

As in far, faaaaar away from here.

Which means that even if I listen hard, even if I put a cup to the wall and lean my ear up against it, even if I slow down my own darn heartbeat because it's interfering with my ability to hear, even then?

I can't hear Child 3 at all.

Child 3 has a talent for noise.

Commonly heard phrases in our house:

"Child 3! PLEASE no more percussion"

"That includes thumping your belly"

"And your sibling"

"And ME! Get off 3!"

"And no nose flute either"

"Child 3, are you quite sure you don't need to go outside and take a nice, long run?"

A week or so ago Child 3 took a cardboard box, a strip of steel flashing, a plank of wood, a rope and some hot glue and created The Childolin. Because what was missing in Child 3's life was something it could grab up at a moment's notice and shout, "hey! Guess what song I'm playing! It's Diary of Jane! On the Childolin! Listen again!" [note: I will post a picture of the Childolin but it will have to wait because darn old Child 1 selfishly took its digital camera with it on the trip]

So having packed Child 3 up (and double checked its toothbrush AND its ID that took 3 days to find) I sent it and its sibling off on Monday with many loving little words of farewell and a song in my heart.

And for the last three days it has been blissfully, remarkably quiet.

Golly, I kind of miss It.

Celebrating Fertility Symbols and Sugar Rushes

So Easter might have snuck up on me a little.

Yes, there have been aisles of sickly pastel in Target for the past month and a half. Yes there might have been one or two HUNDRED different "baskets" - including one made out of Elmo's head that I'll tell you right now will be worth at least $5000 in therapy when some poor kid stops suppressing that particular memory. Yes there were stacks of bunny and chickie related books with a large display of "special store brand" rabbits right at check out. But I still found myself last Friday going, "wait, Easter? That Easter?? THIS Sunday???"

So I found myself in the pushing, elbowing crowd with all the other parents who celebrate various holidays by following the sacred traditions of procrastination and panic. I did hear one mother, nearly in tears, desperately asking someone where. the. damn. plastic. eggs. were. I smiled at her in sympathy and neatly snagged the last bag of Reese's eggs by reaching between two grandmother types and over the woman who was sitting on the floor painstakingly comparing the attractions of Starburst jelly beans vs. Brachs. I don't bother with that sort of care and bother. I just make sure I have enough tooth-rotting sucrose to make a decent show but not so much that I would have to spend more than two hours packaging it.

Because we have this tradition at our house.

So this year's hiding places included:

Buried in the sugar bin
Taped to the underside of the clunky old television
Nestled inside the second of the Russian Dictator Stacking Dolls (Breshnev)
Stuck to the corner of the ceiling behind the sofit
Stuffed down the center of the paper towels (which Child 3 dislodged by giving the roll a violent whip, sending the small packet of jelly beans whizzing past Child 1's ear and adding to Child's complicated relationship with flying beans)

and

slid into the battery compartment of the largest flashlight.

By the time we were on these the Children were pathetically begging for a hint so I told them finding this one would be "illuminating."

Child 2 shrieked "LIGHTBULB!!!" sounding a little like a hysterical chicken.

Naturally we shouted Lightbulb! at each other at random moments for the rest of the day.

Oh, and we never did find one wad of jelly beans. That's traditional too.

Classification

"I am a fork!" Child 1 announced this weekend.

I'd like to tell you there was a long and logical lead up (oooh! alliteration!) to this moment but no, actually it was a short and entirely ridiculous lead up. Which comes as no surprise to anyone who knows us.

And it wasn't enough to declare Its association with common cutlery, no. Child 1 immediately began agitating for fork rights and making random declarations of fork unity.

Child 2 naturally refused to be a fork. Since this is the Don't Touch Me Child we responded by declaring it a spoon - simply waiting to be cuddled. There was a certain amount of outrage, and possibly a little rebellious shouting of, "I'm a knife! a KNIFE!!" but Child 1 and I were not to be denied.

This left however the difficult problem of Child 3. Child 1 wasn't entirely sure Child 3 was worthy of forkishness and Child 2 was selfishly hogging both spoons AND knives with its stubborn refusal to accept its essential lovability. I resolved it though and declared Child 3 an egg slicer.* Child 3 was delighted.

Then we all did the fork dance of victory and finished our pasta.

*Anyone who has read Terry Pratchett will understand this, but for those who haven't, the egg slicer is the thing that everyone has but no one remembers buying. Also it's the thing that always gets caught in the drawer and causes the incarnation of the goddess Annoia. Since Child 3 is ubiquitous, has ridiculously long limbs that certainly give the impression they are about to get caught in things, and is probably the most committed acolyte in the spread of the cult of Annoia we felt it was a reasonable designation.

Anyone got a Flux Capacitor?

Argh

Sorry about the sporadic posting. We recently had a staff member resign and because of the way hiring is done here we couldn't even advertise to fill the position until nearly a month had gone by. Actually, we still don't have an ad out for it which means we'll be a staff member down for another month probably (hopefully not much more). So a few of us have been spending part of our time covering for this position - which in my case means being away from my computer and therefore not being able to do my core job. At the same time I've just had my job responsibilities doubled.

Aaaaaaand I'm also doing a soups-to-nuts complete redesign of the main website I'm responsible for.

All of which means a leetle stress, and very little time or energy for writing blogger posts. However according to the Children I make very amusing Marge Simpson noises so there's an upside to it all I suppose.

Also I did just finish a first draft of a poster that looks pretty darn cool (my horn! I am blowing it! Wooot! Wooot!) and will hopefully be approved by the director today which will be one slim file removed from my towering pile of Very Important Things To Do Immediately and At Once.

Child 1 - Now with photos!

Child 1, bless it, was our training child, the one we made all of our mistakes on - at least in theory. Actually it spoiled us rotten by being a remarkably easy and pleasant kid, something we falsely attributed to our mad parenting skilz.

This year it has startled me by suddenly becoming a creative and accomplished artist. It is taking ceramics, and has been steadily filling up a shelf with a variety of pots and bowls. They are very nice pots and bowls of course, and I like them a great deal but they pale in comparison with the sculpture Child has been doing.


There is the charming and insouciant frog I got for Christmas, the small decorated bust it gave me for my birthday, and the impressionistic mermaid that belongs to Child 2 now.

I realize I could be suspected of bias when I report that the stuff Child has been making is, quite simply, brilliant, but this weekend my intelligent opinion was fully confirmed. Child won first place in a city-wide juried art show for area high schools.

As always Child, you amaze me.

Happy birthday.

Images (more to come)


Isn't that the coolest frog?

Multiple Bloginality

I was thinking lately about the list of blogs I regularly read and I realized I have a small issue with multiple personality. IE:

I regularly click over from A Year Off directly to Want Not. Why? Well, I got to Want Not by reading Mir's other blog, Woulda Coulda Shoulda and to A Year Off by following Chris from Notes From The Trenches. So what if one is all about the fabulous, fabulous bargains that are to be had on the net while the other journals Chris's efforts to not purchase anything unnecessary during the year?

Then there are the three infertile blogs I read - not because I'm infertile but because of one of those linked from a link from a suggestion from a recommendation. The writing is good so I find myself following Tertia, Julia and Julie.

I regularly read French Laundry At Home (and then have to take a brisk walk during lunch just to work off the feeling of digital heaviness from all the cream and butter), David Lebovitz and Chubby Hubby and then head right over to see what is happening at A Lard Off My Mind without suffering so much as virtual whiplash from the change of pace.

I sent my father a link to a blog discussing research into the author's family (among other things my father is a certified professional genealogist) and he asked, in some bemusement, where in the heck I came across the blog. Well, you see someone sent me a link to a house blog and they had a link to another and that ended up at this place where...


I read some blogs that cannot be categorized (like Emily at Wheels On The Bus. Is she a Mommy blogger? a Memoir Blogger? I dunno, I just like to read) and some that are easily pigeonholed like Go Fug Yourself (where I can be amused by mockery of people I generally don't know exist!) or Pajiba (note to Mother and others easily offended! There are bad, bad words used on that site, and often very rude analogies).

Someone told me the other day that I can know what sort of person I am by looking at the list of blogs I read.

I guess I'm a bargain hunting, anti-consumerist, gourmet hedonistic, nutritionally conscientious, pop-culture obsessed voyeur.

Yup, about sums it up.

Love Hurts

I spent the weekend throwing jelly beans at the Children.

Well, not the whole weekend. Just an hour or so on Sunday afternoon.

It's how I justify giving them sugared snacks! Yes, I say to them, yes you may have tooth-rotting, nutritionally vacuous, improbably colored bits-o-sugar! You just have to be able to duck really fast as well.

Child 2 is boring. It sits close enough that I have to toss rather than throw and the jelly beans more often than not simply rolled down into its bowl. Also, Child 2 says thank you, each and every time, regardless of whether I was trying to land the jelly bean in its ear or not. That takes all the fun out of it.

Child 3 stoically ignores me but uses its mind-numbingly long arms to sweep the jelly beans into its jelly bean collection area. Child 3 would be a complete wash except the beans made a satisfying and amusing "tok" sound when they hit the top of its head.

Child 1 though, Child 1 makes it all worth while. For the first few beans it simply went wild eyed and waved frantically at the beans as they whizzed past its nose. Then it tried to go all calm and patient and pretended to read its book - a ploy that failed utterly because it kept twitching when I rattled the bean container. That became amusing in itself because I could make the noise and then do a sort of false-throwing motion and Child 1 would hurl its book down and assume a defensive ninja posture (what?? We don't have a dog to torment.) After a while, naturally, it got wise to this and stopped reacting. Which is when I nailed it good and proper.

It's all part of my parenting theory - the one that says you know you're going to scar your children so you better make sure a good time is had by all in the process.

Oh, and it's not a bad idea to get a blog post out of it too.

Natural History

Walking a long way to and from work gives me a lot of opportunity to observe the surrounding life forms. Not so much on the flora front - 'round these parts flora comes in two varieties: defeated ornamental (you know, the kind that has been beaten into submission until it will survive being planted in a super-store parking lot) or native (which means prickly, hostile, and only green in relation to the dusty-brown that surrounds it on all sides). Fauna however we get in infinite variety, and much time can be happily passed attempting to categorize it.

The game can be simplified as Panhandler, Professor, or Student? The recent boom in hands-free devices has made this a little more difficult as it's not always easy to tell if someone is talking to themselves or to the little electronic parasite in their ear, but the premise is simple enough. Using only clothing and accessories attempt to classify the following into the appropriate slot. I've started you off with some easy ones (answers at the bottom if you want to cheat) and then thrown a poser onto the end that I saw just yesterday and has me baffled.

A. Middle aged man, suit, cap, briefcase.

B. Older male, wild hair, frayed jeans, brown loafers with cracks in the toes.

C. Young woman, pink bicycle, flannel pajamas with penguins on.

D. Male, indeterminate age, green felt fez with yellow tassel, bright red guitar strung over back, leather coat.

ANS:

A. Panhandler. Specializes in varied religions: "Jesus loves you ma'am, he loves you, any spare change?" (heard last week); "something good is going to happen to you today sir, something good. Your karma is really good now, it's good." (heard this week)

B. Professor - humanities of some sort, not sure which branch. I know, that one was easy.

C. Trick question! It's either a pseudo-student or a proto-professor. It's a Teaching Assistant and should therefore be treated with great kindness poor little rabbit.

D. I honestly have no idea. The guitar could mean student (angst-ridden and hoping that being a sensitive musician will help him pick up girls) or pan-handler (of the "pay me for my endless repetition of the one song I can remember with the three chords I know how to play," or the "put enough change in my case and I'll stop singing" variety). He didn't have a case to collect money, but that could be what the fez was for. If he were wearing a bicycle clip around his leg I would have opted for professor but honestly this one has escaped me.

Child 2

*NOTE - these birthday posts are not linked to actual birthdays because we have this mad Birthday Blur for three weeks and I wanted to take the time to actually THINK about what I wanted to write. For once. Child 1's post will come in time too. *

Child 2 was born in a snow storm. It has always known how to make a dramatic entrance. Which is funny because Child 2 is the Shy Child, the Child who can think of seven different reasons other people wouldn't even WANT to talk to It before there's even time for a "hello." Child 2 is My Child - the one like me (sometimes).

It is our Germany Child, born in a little Medieval city called Fulda. Maybe the narrow streets and the yellow stone buildings seeped into its veins somehow because Child 2 does live a little in a fairy-tale past given the chance.

It is our Book Child, our Reading Child who gulps down a new book in an hour and then has to go back and read it again because, in the mad dash for the end (and because it's like me) it has skipped all the bits where it looked like things were going wrong.

It is our I Meant To Do That Child who can turn a slip into a glide and a fall into an entirely purposeful sit, staring triumphantly up at you and defying you to prove that there was any accident involved.

When it turned ten it reached back, took a firm grip on its childhood and stubbornly refused to let go. Adulthood was dangerous waters; it was going to stay in the safe and well known shallows. Maybe it was wise, maybe it knew best that there is nothing wrong in taking your time and coming to things when you're ready.

Because this has been a year of growth for Child 2. Not, sadly, in the way it wants - my darling Child, I'm afraid you will never be taller than Child 3 - but in the way it does small things for other people simply to make them happy, the way it stops, then stops again before getting angry, before letting its quick temper flash out of control (yes, that one was me as well), the way most of all that it has begun to learn to be comfortable, to be graceful, to be beautiful, within its skin.

Happy Birthday Child 2. I love you.

Scrambled Brains

I like structure. Yes, I do a creative job but it's a highly structured creative job and it's the structure, in my opinion, that makes everything else possible.

The trouble is when something shakes up the structure because that makes everything else wobble and, often, crash around my ears.

Take this week. This week is Testing Week. But it's only Testing Week for Lucky Child 2 - the entire rest of the school (well, yes except for other students of It's year, but that's not the point) is having three days of totally unearned vacation. (go on, ask me how Child 2 feels about this!) This means that yesterday all three Children woke up (eventually) and wandered off to school (except for Child 2 who claimed Unfair Flu and was allowed to stay home with a blanket, an i-pod and a pile of books). It means that this morning Child 2 was roused (sort of) and at least jump-started so in theory It would be ready for It's ride, but Children 1 and 3 were allowed to sleep in. That would be fine, that's just enough variation from the norm that I could, theoretically, cope.

But.

Children 1 and 3 are the JROTC Children and for some unknown reason the JROTC people have decided this is the perfect chance to have many! many! practices! (don't ask, I still haven't sorted out the nuances in the various things. I can only tell Armed from Unarmed because of the rather large chunks of wood and metal one group carries around) Child 1 has... one practice I think in the afternoon and possibly another in the morning but Child 3 definitely (maybe) has 2, one in the morning and one in the afternoon and not one of them is in the same darn place.

I discovered all of this about... two days ago. Now I do make an effort (sometimes) so I was trying to wrap myself around how I was going to go to work AND deliver Children to their various appointments and then I realized that I have: 1 meeting this afternoon, immutable as the tide which wipes out any delivery ability; 1 training session tomorrow morning which will doubtless go late thus meaning I could, if I bent space and time, possibly get one Child, late, to one of its practices but only one and; 2 meetings and a project on Thursday.

I shall don my tiara and sash at once for the Mother of the Year awards.

Dad Pasta

So we made Dad Pasta on Sunday. Actually, the Birthday Child made it really, having grasped the family philosophy that the best part of dinner is the Wielding of the Really Sharp Knives. We haven't had Dad Pasta in five years or so, not since California, not since before everything happened.

The Child did beautifully, chopping the garlic to a fine mince, producing bite-sized chunks of sun-dried tomato without spending inordinate amounts of time ensuring that each chunk is precisely the size of the previous one. I gave a few rudimentary instructions and was allowed to put the pasta in the boiling water.

At the end of it all the Children each dished up an enormous bowl and there was an extended silence. I admit to being nervous. This was Dad Pasta, after all - what if we got it wrong? What if our collective memory had somehow let us down?

You see, we have memories of Kirk that go beyond the stories. There are the CDs he burned, some of them simply labeled "KVA," or "Mellow Mix," one saying "Mountain Bike Mix." It's not the songs that matter, it's the particular selection and order that's like an imprint of his personality. His fishing gear is carefully saved because that brown case evokes hundreds of small moments: of Kirk's first salmon, of the prize King he caught, of the way we laughed on the Virginia lake when Child 1 tried to set the hook when It got a bite and ended up flinging the small sunfish twenty yards away and into a tree... aural memories, visual memories, and, now visceral memories of taste. If we got it right.

I was the only one concerned. It was fantastic.

Dad Pasta - Now with measurements!

4 tbsp olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely minced (or, you know, if you have a garlic press you could do the wimpy version)
1 small jar sun-dried tomatoes in oil
1 C kalamata olives, quartered
2 C fresh spinach, stems removed, roughly chopped
1 16 oz package fettuccine
5 oz feta cheese

While the fettuccine is cooking: in a heavy pan lightly brown the garlic in the olive oil. Add tomatoes and stir until fragrant. Add olives and remove from heat.

Place spinach in serving bowl. Place hot, drained pasta over the spinach and allow to wilt. Stir in garlic, tomatoes and olives, toss to coat pasta with oil. Add feta cheese and serve.

We didn't add any salt or pepper because the olives and cheese are already so salty. The flavors are intense enough not to need any additional seasoning.

Random Friday Thought

Do you think there's some sort of resource out there, a compendium of some sort maybe that is available only to certain people? It would have, alphabetically or maybe by subject, thousands of brief, bright messages intended to uplift and inspire in a single sentence. Maybe there would be a rating system with little icons so you could quickly sort through and find those that:

A) included a pun or other play on words
B) paraphrases or otherwise bowdlerizes well known quotations
C) are overtly religious

I'm convinced it exists and is the source for: all "inspirational" signs outside of certain American churches; a large range of greeting cards, most of them pastel and sporting doe-eyed creatures or floral arrangements; the fortunes in the ginormous bag of fortune cookies donated to Child 2 by its friend.

Viz:

"God does not respond to e-mail, he responds to KNEE-mail"
"Don't turn over a new leaf, turn over a new LIFE"
"It is okay to have butterflies in your stomach, just get them flying in formation"
"Before you can do something you must first BE something"

There was one from a cookie though that I think missed its mark a little:

"Catch fire with a passion for something and the world will come to watch you burn."

Um.

Yes, maybe I'll stick with organizing those butterflies instead.

Suppah Time

The Birthday Children get to pick what they want for dinner on their birthday. It only seems fair really; that way the Anti-Mushroom Child doesn't end up with Fungus Amungus a la chantorelle or something. So last weekend it was steak and salad, with just one instant of trouble when The Friend clapped its hand to its mouth and blurted "oops! It's Lent!" This weekend it's going to be Dad Pasta.

We used to make a pretty big deal out of cooking dinner every night. There is something deeply satisfying in taking a mixed group of ingredients from raw form to finished product, and we loved every step. We wrangled (nicely) over who got to have the fun of Wielding The Knives. We asked for and received appreciation from each other as various stages were achieved ("oooh, look how nicely that scallop is caramelizing!" yes, it was fascinating being us!) and once the food was actually served it was assumed that voluble reaction would be made - preferably positive.

I was usually the chef since I worked from home and didn't have to wrestle with the various commutes Kirk had, but when we were living in California he had much more time in the evenings and he began experimenting with some recipes of his own. His tilapia was a favorite, for example, and he had a potato/pasta dish that was delicious. I left those to him, and unlike me he never bothered to write down his inspirations so this Sunday I'm going to be working off of memory.

Dad Pasta:

Fetuccini - enough to serve five (one or two of whom are Male and voracious)
fresh spinach - about... maybe 2 cups raw?
sun-dried tomatoes - in oil, to taste (what? I go by how it looks! Put 'em in until there are enough)
Kalamata olives - not so many as tomatoes but enough so you get one with each bite (there, was that more specific?)
feta cheese - a handful. Or so.
olive oil

Cook the pasta, toss with remaining ingredients. Serve with flair.

Bloom

Someone let these darn Children grow up and I want to know who.

There was the ROTC Military Ball on Friday, attended by the two JROTC Children. Then there was a Dining Out on Saturday, attended by the two female CAP Children.

It was one of the Children's birthday on Friday (we overdo the whole February birthday thing; mine and two Children's fall in that month) and after some discussion about earrings and boxes and scented lotions and things (it has decided it is a Girl and should maybe express that sometimes) I brought up the possibility of attending the Dining Out and maybe getting a nice dress as its birthday present. There was a little complaining about Lack Of Danceability and a smidgen of Someone Might Talk To Me but when weighed against the chance to have a formal(ish) dress of its very own it caved like the feminine creature it is.

Hence we faced the mall on Saturday. It was painful. There were many, many people and it's entirely likely I tipped over more than a few as I walked quickly and firmly to the one store I was willing to try. (Note: I hate shopping. I hate crowded malls. I had previously discovered that one particular store had a reasonable selection AND a decent price so I headed directly towards there, no passing Go, no $200. Anyone who was injured in this sort of bee-line approach totally deserved what they got because they were walking four abreast and sloooooooowly drifting along). Once at the store though we found a huge collection of quite nice dresses at huge sale - got lucky.

The non-birthday child (its turn comes next week) quickly got into the spirit of things and hauled off several things for itself but meanwhile The Child, the Don't Touch Me Elmo Child, the one who resists all efforts to cuddle or otherwise soften it willingly zipped itself into seven or eight dresses and then wandered into the hall for expert critiquing.

And you know that magic thing that happens with dresses? The one that happened last year? It happened again. The non-birthday Child chose a black and white number that twirled and switched and made its waist look about 10 inches around. And the Birthday Child? It found something swingy and elegant, simple but stunning and just a little sparkly.

And when they both were dressed and had brushed and tinted and generally gilded the lily I looked at them and realized:

They're OLD

and BEAUTIFUL

and I'd really like to know who authorized that because it sure wasn't me.

Excuse me, I know I stored Kirk's shotgun somewhere...

Military Ball

The ROTC Children are going to a ball.

The military does a lot of formal dinner/dance type things so the theory is that in high school the young cadets should be dragged into a large room (hopefully after a general clean-and-buff) and taught the rudiments of etiquette. I'm not sure how successful this is. I vaguely remember Child 1 talking a couple of years ago about pre-ball lectures on "this is a fork, this is a knife - no! Not THAT kind of knife!!" and how not to suck up your spaghetti until the end whips around and splatters your companions with Sauce Bolognaise. There does not seem to have been any such effort this year. I'm not sure if its because this cadre is considered to be slightly less knuckle-dragging than the other, or that the poor commander is simply beyond such minor concerns.

Child 1 is on The Committee which has meant fact finding missions to Target and an exciting discussion about whether or not female cadets were going to be required to wear their polyester blue class A skirts (1 vote) or could blossom out into sequins, tulle and teetery high heeled shoes (entire female cadet population, very loud and extremely shrill). It also means it must remain behind after the ball to clean up which sounds, to be honest a little Cinderella in reverse to me.

Does this place me in the role of Lt. F. Godmother? In anticipation I will try to locate a reliable source for glass combat boots. Any assistance would be appreciated.

Mus Musculus

We have a mouse!

Well, not we the family but we the place-where-I-work.

That is, it might be multiple mice I suppose but it does have a distinctive personality so I suspect A Mouse, singular. If so it should definitely go out for meece Olympics because this Mouse is an impressive sprinter. It was definitely seen taking a hard corner from the lounge into an office at which point the Mouse Eradication Professional was alerted. He came and informed us that sinks are bad (we have two) as is food (we have much - many, many people who like to do surreptitious snacking at their desks). Then he wandered around for a while with steel wool and caulk.

At which point the mouse somehow evaded detection and arrived at the other side of the building where it intelligently took refuge in one of the more tender-hearted colleagues's office. So tender-hearted is she in fact that she abandoned the entire office to the mouse and came out to spend useful minutes with us in the lobby where we were helping by talking about how it was A Mouse! In the building! And the hall! (we're good in crises like these: we really know how to best employ them).

To complicate things we have several splendid men from maintenance rooting around in the ceiling trying to discover why most of the floor above is being heated to a toasty 85 degrees. The mouse apparently took their hall-full of ladders as an opportunity to practice the cross-country/obstacle event because it sped back to the lobby, wove skillfully through the ladders, made a dash for the Boss's office, thought better of it and finally disappeared into another occupied room whose tenant simply noted there was now A Mouse in the room and phlegmatically went on working.

This has led to a bit of division among the work force.

There are the humanitarian types who are hand-wringing and fretting over the thought that the sweet little Mouse might be harmed (say, by having its sweet little neck snapped in a little old trap). Then there are the practical types who think it's A Mouse for heaven's sake and all us big girl's blouses should just man up and kill the darn thing already (stupid plague carrying rodent...).

Then there are the really intelligent types like me who figure if the Mouse stays around for a few more days we could establish a Committee for Rodent Understanding and Integration with a lot of off-site planning meetings, a few working lunches and a fact-finding trip or two.

I just might need to write up a proposal.

In the Zone

Last night.

Child 1: Wow, Mom! You got in three nags and you didn't even have to take a breath!

Right, I dominate the regionals, I think I'm ready for nationals now, don't you?

Politics

I didn't vote on Tuesday.

Not that I don't have an opinion. I have multiple opinions, and in places other than my blog (say, to my long-suffering children - and sometimes their innocent and bewildered friends) I express them fully, at length even, with historical anecdotes and little Venn diagrams and everything.

But I didn't vote.

I can't, see, because I'm a registered Independent. Kirk and I made that choice together about.... wow.... long time ago now because of a lot of complicated feelings about the electoral process, about our two party system, about party politics in general.

We chose it after a lot of thought and a lot of discussion and every four years I revisit all of it and ask myself if I still believe it enough to give up the chance to have a say in the primaries.

And I do. I still do.

I didn't vote on Tuesday because I couldn't. But as soon as I can?

You'd better believe I'll be there.