Gee, thanks, son

I had a busy afternoon yesterday.

Nolan had a special band practice.  Ordinarily, not a big deal, but it was held at a school far from home, and I had to just hang out and wait for him at the school with the other kids.

I figured we'd shoot hoops or something like that.   I was foiled by really strong winds and blowing dust; and my plan B (the DVD player) was forgotten at home. 

I found a diversion watching the jr high girls practicing for upcoming cheerleading tryouts.

Oh, my God.

When did cheerleading become such serious business?  There were girls in there just practicing that were waaay better than many high school squads I remember from back in the day.

Um.  Wow.  Somewhere between the cheer, the dance moves, and the gymnastics, I started wishing I wasn't sitting there with a 4 year old riveted to the action.  For that matter, I started wishing the two impressionable boys weren't sitting there with me too, catching a glimpse of Gyrating 101.

It was really something else.  

Anyway, later, we met up with Nolan outside, and as the girls were doing these amazing tumbling runs, I made him look into the window.  He looked for just a second, and I thought he wasn't interested.  Hmm.

We're walking away, and he says, "So, what did you do while I was rehearsing?"  and both Ben and I simultaneously replied, "We watched the cheerleaders."

The look on Nolan's face said it all.   He looked over his shoulder at us, little grin on his face...and I swear I could see him thinking that we got the better end of the deal.

And I realized that he would've looked through that window a little longer had his Mom not been standing right there next to him. 

Aww...my little boy is growing up.

Ack....my little boy is growing up.

We had to book it to their school, for another function.  It was late when we left that, and we still had homework to do, so I hit McDonald's on the way home.

I had to go inside, as they all needed the bathroom (big surprise), and the drive-thru was really busy. 

Our order took a looong time due to the staff being a little slow (on so many levels).  As we waited, Nolan stood next to me.  He gestures and says, "Mom, there's something on your jaw."  "What?"  I put up my hand, expecting to draw back a smudge of facepaint (Audrey had butterflies drawn on hers, and that stuff always winds up all over me, too)...no.  Oh, man.  Sigh.

"It's a zit."  It's enormous, of course, and I'm sure that it's been lurking all night, out there at the school, for everyone to see, because there is no way to miss it.

"That's not a zit," he says, "That's Mount Blemish."

Niiiiice.  Dissed by my own child.  "You suck,"  I told him, because at that moment, my last shred of "edit yourself" was used up.  (The demon mistress PMS can only be held back for sooo long between chocolate sacrifices...he's lucky my head didn't spin.)

He giggles.  I remind him to be more diplomatic.  But it's funny, so I crack up in the end. 

"Your day will come,"  I told him, as I pushed his shoulder.

Little does he know that it'll come and go sooner than he thinks.

Mommy has a sailor mouth

Look at his little angelic face.

Yesterday, I'm picking up everyone from school.  I was mentioning to Nolan about something on the radio, and it included the word "damn". 

Ryan pipes up from his backseat.  "Damn" I hear him say, kinda low, but he did say it.
"Don't say that, Sugar,"  I told him. 

"I can't say 'damn'?" he asks.  "Nope,"  I answered.

"Well, what about 'bitch'?"  he replies.

??At this point, both Nolan and I turn our heads into the backseat to look at him.  He smiles at us, like it's no big deal.

Before I can answer, Nolan pipes up.  "She doesn't let me swear, what makes you think you're gonna get away with it?"

I told him no, he couldn't say 'bitch' or any of its 'bee-yotch' forms.  Once we were home, and I had a minute alone with him, I asked him, "Where'd you get that?"

(As if I didn't know.)

"Did you hear it on tv, or do any of your little classmates say it?"

"No, Mommy.  I heard it from you."

Oh, I could see the self-satisfied smug look on my husband's face right then, and he wasn't even home.

Visions of cartoon bubbles filled with *%$#@ floating above Ryan on the playground fill my head. 

Come on.  I'm don't really drink (even though some days I really want to and no one would even point a finger at me on those days); I don't smoke; I'm not a floozy-mom.  The occasional string of curses that erupt in frustration, anger, or excitement is all I've got as far as vices go.  Well, and chocolate.  Yet I still said:

"I will try harder not to say those words." 

My lower lip will soon be the size of a basketball if I have to bite it all the time to keep quiet.  "It's not collagen,"  I'll insist.

Not such a nice visual, is it?  Need to do something to erase that....so it's Wedsnesday, big deal...

Saturday Six - Episode 106

1. What food do you most enjoy cooking? How many people have you cooked this dish for? 

I like to make lasagna.  I've cooked it for lots of people, mainly my family, mainly because if they want me to cook big, this is what they request. :)

2. If you could go behind the scenes at any television show to get a look at how things worked, which show would you choose and why? 

None.  I'm not that interested in the behind-the-scenes.  Well, maybe the makeup artists might be fun to watch, and learn a few tricks from.  Heehee, which show has the most repair work on faces needed?  (Cattily, I'd say the View. Spackle!  Airbrush! lol)

3. Besides your bed, what's the easiest place in your home for you to take a nap? When was the last time you fell asleep there?

I fall asleep if I sit still too long, so I'd say the magic chair.  I knocked out in it last night, and even the screaming match taking place on Elizabeth (the HBO one) didn't wake me.  (Mr W did, and given all the crap I dish out about him and his high-volume viewing, did I feel stupid that I was knocked out in the middle of a high-volume moment. :s)

4. Take the quiz: What time of day are you? (Found at Shelly's Cyber Chocolate.)
You are Sunrise. You enjoy living a slow, fulfilling life. You enjoy living every moment, no matter how ordinary.  You are a person of reflection and meditation. You start and end every day by looking inward.   Caring and giving, you enjoy making people happy. You're often cooking for friends or buying them gifts.  All in all, you know how to love life for what it is - not for how it should be. 

Ha, I don't know about that "reflection and meditation"; but I do know I like to spoil my friends and family.  Alot.  

5. What time of year do you usually read the most books? 

I read all the time; but of course, more in the summer or during the times the kids are on break from school.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #89 from Jamilynn: What is your favorite article of clothing? Is there a story behind it? 

Currently, my Hello Kitty pajama bottoms.  They're pink, and they are comfy, and I think a little whimsical.  I'm wearing them now.  And Audrey likes them because when she has on her HK nightgown, we match.  I bought them because I figured, why should the little girls get to have all the fun?

I'm off now, to wash out my mouth with soap.

Weekend assignment #108

I couldn't resist this weekend assignment. :)

Weekend Assignment #108: Show off (or link to) a lesser-known work from a favorite artist. Because there's more to Da Vinci than the Mona Lisa, and more to Van Gogh than Starry Night. I'm thinking of painters, but if you'd prefer to essay a lesser known book from a famous author, or song from a favorite musician, that'll work, too.

Extra Credit: When was the last time you were in an art museum?

Both of these works are by Edgar Degas.  Although when I think of Degas, I think of those beautiful paintings of ballerinas, I also like these two works. 

I have Degas on the brain lately, what with my tiny dancer and her penchant for everyone's favorite little swine, Olivia.  Everytime I read that story to her, and we get to the Degas in it, I stop for a minute, just to take it in.  And I daydream about taking her to see the real one.

On the left, the painting is L'absinthe, done in 1876.  You can see a better copy of it here.  I like it that it's not a perfect pretty picture; they hardly appear to be content, but you can't stop looking at them.   Check, please.

As for The Little Fourteen Year Old Dancer, the sculpture on the right, I can't help but like it.   As I  mentioned before, one usually associates Degas with the paintings of dancers.  I find it a nice change of pace to have this dancer in 3-D.  She's so fantastic, I almost expect her to come to life.  This was done in 1880, as a wax figure, tinted to look like flesh; complete with real bodice, tutu, slippers, and a wig with a ribbon in it.  It was cast in bronze in 1922.  She is still tinted, with a cotton skirt and satin ribbon. 

And yes, something about the pose reminds me of Audrey.  Maybe because I think you can really see the spirit of a little girl in this, and that is what enchants me so about it.

Extra Credit:  I went to the local youth museum with Audrey for a preschool field trip a few months ago.  It was really interactive and we had a lot of fun. 

Hmm.  Maybe I'll go back and do the poetry assignment from last week.....

 

Just when I think I got it going on...

Dear Ryan,

It's a hard lesson to learn, son, that you don't get to pick your family.  You are stuck with us.  You are stuck with me.

I'm sorry.

I didn't forget you at school because I don't love you.

I don't call you the wrong name all the time because I don't love you.

You don't get lost in the shuffle because I don't love you.

These things happen because I am just a mere mortal.  I do the best I can by all of you, and sometimes that means I fall short of one of you.  Please don't take it personally.

Afterall, I wouldn't call you Sugar if you weren't special.

Love, Mom

I did it again.  I did something stupid, and poor Ryan was on the receiving end of it.

I can barely keep track of all the homework around here.  For the most part, they do it, they are responsible, and I sign what I need to sign; help when I need to help. 

Yet last week, I forgot to fill in the Reading Log and Ryan got to spend time in the quiet room, not at an extra recess.

And this morning, the phone rang.  It was Ryan's teacher, wondering about "what am I supposed to do with Ryan's egg creation?"

"It's all wrapped up, and ready to be thrown off the roof."

"No, no," she giggled, "we're doing that next week or the week after.  This week it was the egg creation, where they decorate an egg or egg carton, and we're sharing them with the whole first grade, going from room to room."

Oy.  Oops.  I realized then that I'd only glanced at the homework sheet, and didn't read the entire page.  Based on my experience with the two older kids, I saw "egg creation" read no further, and assumed it was the project where we wrap it up and try to make it be stable enough not to break (they throw the egg off the roof).  Mr W and Ryan worked on it last night, and Mr W didn't read it either, he just did what I told him to do.

"Oops.  Guess I've had too many kids go through first grade, huh, that I didn't look more closely at that.  I'm sorry, I feel like an idiot."  She said it was okay, and we laughed about it, and then I spoke to Ryan.

I don't think he was moved by my apology.  I told him we could do the actual thing over the weekend, and he could take it on Monday.  His teacher said he could share it then.

"That's okay, I can do it myself," he replied.

It appears Mommy is in the doghouse. 

I called Mr W and wanted him to share the blame, but I know it's all me, he knows it's all me, and he said, "Thaaat explains why Ryan wanted to decorate it."  "Yeah, and I didn't even read it, so I thought..."  And he added the "deedidee"-Carlos-Mencia-'you're a dumbass' noise for effect.

You know how people talk about how their younger siblings had it soooo easy, and got away with murder?

It's all about the guilt, people.  By the time the younger siblings roll around, the parents have messed up more, and they have to make up for it somehow.  

Guess I should start saving for his car now.

One word is all it takes

My husband can go on about things sometimes, but not usually to me.  I always marvel at his ability to yack when spares so few words most of the time.  It can get really frustrating.

Yeah, yeah, he talks a lot at work.

Yeah, yeah, actions speak louder and all that. 

It's just that I'm a verbal girl, I don't want to read his mental smoke signals all the time.  I'm busy.  Spit it out, man.  Look at me, answer me, you know, something above the mini-grunt-and-nod combo would be nice on occasion.

I had to giggle today, as I was emailing him back and forth this morning.  I'd sent him something to look at (that nifty tag that Chantal made me for my 'about me') and he emailed me back this:

"Good."

That's it.  I promptly responded with "You are the king of the one-word answers."  Seriously.  This is how things could go, around the house, on any given day (except the last two, they're true):

"I think I broke my foot."

"Ouch."

"The kids got in trouble at school today."

"Yeah."

"I just spent our last ten bucks on lipgloss."

"Okay."

"The cat peed on your clothes."

"Dammit."

"Let's meet for lunch."

"Sure."

"My boyfriend is in town." 

"Really?"

"Gonna head out to the store."

(mini-grunt/nod combo--not worthy of a full response)

"When you get home, I'll be waiting." (nudge nudge, wink wink)

"Understood." 

I'm not certain it's understood, so I look around for neighbors before quickly stepping into the garage, and pressing ahm, something bare (and easily accessible) against the driver's side window right next to him. 

"You're a little bit of a freak." 

Whoo!  A response that was a sentence.

Victory is mine!!  (the crowd roars)

I wonder what it would take to get a conversation going, but I know I'm not doing that in the garage.

My victory is short-lived. 

And to that all I can say, with a sigh, is:  understood.

My attempt at the Thursday Thirteen

My friend Laura does this meme, the Thursday Thirteen, each week.  I've been intrigued, but not quite up to doing it.  Thirteen things seems like a lot!   Here's the lowdown:

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted! I hope that you will play along and leave me a link to yours.

Call me lazy, but it seems like a lot of linking.  Maybe next time.  But for now, in honor of Audrey's upcoming 4th birthday...

Thirteen Reasons It's Good To Be Audrey:

1.  She always wears a dress, and looks smashing in it. 

2.  Shoes, shoes, and more shoes.  

3.  Currently is sporting every tiny hair clip she owns, on two small hanks of hair on either side of her head.  If she nods "no" she will knock herself out, but it's a look that works for her.

4.  Max thinks she's a demi-goddess, as she knows how to open the back door, to let him back in, and where the treats are.  She is generous with her loyal subject--he just has to sit for her first to be guaranteed a bone.  Bones which are now hidden, as 85 lbs of puppy love is plenty.

5.  Popsicles--the other food group.

6.  Watercolors, and lots of paper; playdoh, dolls, lippy...so much to do, so little time. 

7.  Attitude.  I don't know many people who can get away with "Don't touch the pretty girl," as she removes Ben's hand from her shoulder.  Yes, I cringed when she said it.  Then I muttered as I left the room, "Let's just remember that one when you're 15, okay?"

8.  She's the little object of all our affection.  How could it suck,  when you are so loved?

9.  The "Princess" wave, acceptable at all times.  (fingers closed, hand cupped just so...we all know how to do it, and we do it along with her)

10.  Dancing at a moment's notice isn't frowned upon, but encouraged.  

11.  Three older brothers.  Recently, Ben was not happy with another older little boy who was playing with her.  He felt the kid was scaring her and too rough, I think.   He looked the kid in the eye, made sure he had his attention, and said, "Could you just leave her alone?  No, really, you're scaring her, leave her alone."  I have no doubt in my mind that had he not had to go back into aikido, he would have sat sentry over her until he was satisfied she was being left alone, never mind that there were two adults sitting there watching the scene too.  I don't think a girl can get any better protection than an older brother, do you? 

12.  Glitter hairspray is not too garish for daytime. 

13.  Saturday is her birthday.  She chose a cake, and I'm not kidding, that has a crown and a scepter on it.  I balked at first, omg, a  crown ? but I gave in.  Eh, it's her birthday, and who knows what next year's obsession will be?  Might as well enjoy this one while it lasts.

Sing-along

Saturday morning, the kids were around the table, eating.

I was still no where near up to anything, but was making an appearance.   And of course, the sight of Mommy means "Oh, yay !  Mommy is here!  She will feed us!  She will be nice to us!  Sir, you are dismissed!"  (as they look expectantly at Mr W to leave the room)

I was assailed with "I want, can I have, I want" and as Mr W intervened (thus saving a few lives) Audrey came up to me with the carton of chocolate milk.  I sighed, and semi-hissed, "Give me the pinche milk," reaching for the milk and her glass.  (pinche just means 'darn'; technically, not one of the worst curses I utter in Spanish)

I hear Ryan begin to sing, what sounded like "Bingo" for the most part, and was rolling my eyes, mentally walking back down the hallway to my bedroom, when I hear this:

"...and Pinche was his name-o..." and then Ben joined in, to help:  "P-I-N-C-H, P-I-N-C-H..." and soon, Audrey was singing it too.

Mr W and I exchanged looks, raising eyebrows, before I started giggling like mad. 

It hurt to laugh, and I couldn't stop either myself or them.  We didn't scold them, but told them that was probably not the version they should sing at school.  

I went back to bed.

So far, no notes or phonecalls regarding the new lyrics. 

I wonder if anyone would even notice, considering that song is one of those that goes straight in and shuts off the brain.

I can only hope.

And I thought Aunt Flo was a terrible houseguest--

Just last Wednesday, my friend Jane was here, and I was telling her how Mr W and Nolan had fallen ill.   That the other kids were not feeling so well, either.

She indicated that I was probably next, and I joked that "Mommy's not allowed to get sick."

Geez, what the hell was I thinking?  I may as well as started jumping up and down, sign over my head, tempting the Sick Fates, "Me next!  Me next!!"

I may have not been next, but I was on the waiting list.  Late that night, I was up at 2:30 am with Ben, patting his back, talking him through throwing up.  I went back to bed, a little smug that I was hopefully going to be sitting this one out. 

I woke up an hour later with the realization that not only would I not be sitting this one out, but I'd be lucky to get through it without waking the neighbors. 

Let's just say I had a long night.  A long night of running to the bathroom and reacquainting myself with the insides of the toilet.  Hmm. Missed a spot.  

I threw up so many times, with such ferocity, that I looked like I'd had too many drinks in the sun--my face was red, my eyes were red, I was a mess.   I would've burst into tears when Mr W went out the door to work (don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me) but I just didn't have the energy. 

Ben and I lay in my room, holding hands and taking turns placating Audrey. (Translation:  Letting her have whatever she wanted as long as it meant I didn't have to get up...she could've been doing shots of tequila in the kitchen with the cats, and wouldn't have noticed or cared.  Luckily, she stuck to popsicles.)   Lovely girl, occasionally, I'd feel her pat my head, or just curl up next to me. 

Otherwise, the day is lost to me.  Mainly because my husband knew I was in bad shape, and he came home as soon as he could.  He picked up the kids from school (thank God) and later took the well ones out to eat.   I was so grateful I slept.  Alot.

And I finally got better.  My eyes are still a bit bloodshot, but I'm okay, running around as usual.

I'm getting ready for Audrey's birthday, which is Saturday.

You can bet Uncle Ralph is not invited.

Pen-klepto

Last week, I took Nolan to the allergist.

He's had problems on and off his entire life.  I've been managing to get him through his seasonal bouts, the flare-ups, but I knew deep down he probably needed something more effective. 

Yeah, here he is 12, and I've finally thrown in the towel. 

Actually, as he will be getting braces in the next year or so, I thought it might be nice if the poor boy could be free and clear, breathing-wise, before he has a metal mouth.

I was pleasantly surprised that the doctor took a lot of time with us, compiling history, examining him, and actually listening to both of us and our concerns.  Yet it was odd to have the doctor address him directly.  I realized in the middle of the appointment that truly he is a big boy, and he can speak for himself.

What a revelation.  I'm pleased.

But I felt a twinge in my chest nonetheless.

Anyway, the doctor will be doing some skin testing on him next appt and sent me home with a list of allergens they ordinarily test for.  He also recommended I look around the house and neighborhood for things that may be around in our environment but not necessarily on the list.

All in all, about twenty items on the list; here are the high points:  cat, dog, grasses of more kinds than I thought could exist in a yard, weeds, cockroach mix (eww),  a few molds, and dust mites.  TWO kinds of dust mite--who knew that those little buggers could be differentiated?

Something tells me that does not bode well for me.  I hate to dust, and that is a well-known fact.  I'm getting better at it, only because the dogs, especially Max, track in a lot of dirt.   Between that and the shedding, I'm pretty busy with the vacuum.

So busy, in fact, that my vacuum sighs and begs for mercy when I takeit out of the closet.

"We'll see him back in a week or two," the doctor said, as he walked us back out to the front.

As I was scheduling the appointment, I casually grabbed a pen out of the cup on the counter to write down when we needed to come back.

Make no mistake:  I'd spotted this cup the second I approached the desk when we were signing in earlier.  My receptionist-radar told me that these were probably nice, drug-rep pens. 

I stood there, checking that the date she gave me was okay, knowing that the she would give me a card with the info on it.  I doodled anyway, writing the date on the bottom of my allergens list.

Oooh, nice pen.  Hmm.  I will take the high road here, I decided.

"Can I keep this pen?"  I nonchalantly asked her.

She replied, "Sure, take as many as you want.  We have tons of them."  

...tons of them...tons of them...echoed in my mind, as I resisted the temptation to open my purse up and dump in a couple, or five, or the whole cupful. 

They have no idea who they're dealing with.

"Thanks."  I took one.  Really.  I don't want to be labelled the "Pen-klepto lady."

As long as they always have one for me, we'll get along juuust fine.

Regular day

On his way to work this morning, Mr W paused to tell me a story in the garage.

Yesterday, he was driving back to the station, and he came upon an accident that had just occurred in the upcoming intersection. 

It was just a case of "she turned in front of me so I hit her" involving two older ladies.  He said he went to the first car, felt it was still running, checked on the driver, and asked her to move her car.   She said okay, so he moved on to the next car.

He said as he knocked on the window, he was telling the lady to get off the phone so she could talk to her, as he wanted her to move her car too. 

"Ma'am, get off the phone."

She looked at him, and perplexed, pointed to the phone, and said:

"But I'm talking to 911."

At this point I let out a hoot and I said, "But honey, you are 911..."

He held up his hand for me to stop as he went on.  "Ma'am, hang up the phone.  I'm here, right now, so you don't need to keep talking to them."

As she kept talking on the phone, he heard her say, "Yeah, he's here, and he's telling me to hang up....okay."

"You're kidding,"  I told him.   "Nope."  He shook his head, "I knew you'd like that one."  I was still giggling when he left.

The previous day, he wrote a lady a ticket, for speeding; and as he finished up the paperwork in his car, a man approached him.

It was the woman's husband.  He proceeded to ask Mr W all kinds of questions, in regards to his criteria for writing someone a speeding ticket (including the inevitable "would you write one if you stopped a fellow officer?").  He finished with that his wife had never had a ticket before (of course not).  He finally left, satisfied with his answers, I guess, but not without some parting shot about how he was a teacher once and had had his own share of having to dole out fairness, so he could understand where Mr W was coming from.  (Because you know, his understanding of my husband's motivations for doing his job are just so, so important.)

Who are these people? 

I was thinking about that as I wrote it, feeling just a little superior, when I realized: if you think about it, they are your neighbors, your coworkers, your friends...they are all around us, they are  us, at one time or another.  I can admit to more than one occasion of public stupidity, I'm sure you can too.  It's just mine aren't documented in the public record.  Yet.

Whenever Mr W has a story to tell, I always listen, even when he was coming home in the wee hours and I was up by chance.  I figure if he wants to talk about it, it's for a reason, so I let him get it off his chest.  Sometimes the stories are unpleasant, sometimes the stories are funny.

But they are always confirmation to me that I could never do his job, day in, day out.  

No way. 

Jekyll and Hyde

It's a trap.  I swore I wouldn't do it, nope, not gonna do it; and yet I did.

I signed the girl up for her first dance class.

Partially because she really is interested; partially because it's an hour long, and I'm hoping that will go a long way in wearing her out.  :p

I got her all suited up and ready to go.  Surely she is the most adorable child in the world, I thought, as I took in her little form in the tights, leotard, and tap shoes.

Until I looked into a classroom full of tiny dancers, and heard myself say "awwwwwww" before I could stop it.  I was good.  I turned and left her there, and didn't venture back up until the class was nearly over.  I told myself it would be better this way, that she not see me and ham it up; not paying attention to the teacher.  Mmm-hmm.  She didn't even notice me leaving.

As I stole a peek into the class, I felt myself holding my breath.  She was right next to the teacher, following her every move, looking up at her like she had the secrets to the universe.  She'd alternately follow along in the mirror, and moments passed before she saw me...grinned, waved, and kept on following her teacher's lead. 

I think my heart shifted a bit to accommodate some more growth.

She had a great time.  I thought she'd knock out when we came home, but she proceeded to hound me in the kitchen, "Is it ready yet?" before running off with a stolen piece of chicken.  She was starving!

Later that night, all the boys were in bed, and I changed the channel on the tv, inviting her to sit in my lap for a snuggle.  I wasn't really watching, I just wanted to hold her.  I muted the tv and she objected.  "I want to watch my baby shows," she said.

"It's bedtime, just come sit with me,"  I told her.

She repeatedher request, and I said no again.

Then, she muttered under her breath...before uttering a sentence sure to raise the hackles on any parent.

"You're not the boss of me."  Complete with head toss and foot stomp.

Well, well.  From infinite cuteness to infinite bratness, all in the span of 4 hours.

I think the speed with which I got out of the magic chair and crossed the room to her gave her an idea that she was in big trouble.

She started apologizing and crying immediately, and I still scolded her, gave her a swat (don't call the authorities, it was teeny) on her bottom, and sent her to her room.

She went straight to Daddy.

Who offered her no sympathy and made her apologize too.

So much attitude, in such a tiny package.

Use your powers for good, child, I thought, as I took her hand, and led her back to the magic chair. 

I held her close, smoothed her hair, and the next thing I knew, I was startling myself awake.

She slept on, and barely stirred, even when I put her into her own bed.

Harnessing the power of infinite cuteness for good is hard work.

The Castle

There's a first time for everything, or so they say.

I realized that as I threw my backpack at Nolan, handed my camera to Mr W, and managed to scoop up mini-Snow White under my arm football-style to sprint across the courtyard in front of the castle all in the hopes of garnering the attentions of Cinderella. 

Hoo, boy, did I feel kinda ridiculous.  I'm sure I looked it too, and some set of Japanese tourists is showing footage of it right now, but I can't dwell on it.  What's done is done.

I slowed to a walk, gently set Audrey down, and tried to act nonchalant as I asked the poor girl, "Where will you be next?"

Man, they have it down pat.  I can just see it, in the Disney Princess employee manual:

Keep moving, as you make your way through the crowd to your designated area.  Don't engage in any eye contact.  Stay out of reach of the little grubby hands.  Let the male escorting you to your destination handle crowd control.  Keep moving, even if you are answering a question.  Keep moving, even if Walt himself appears in front of you.

The girls that play the Princesses inside the park are certainly gracious enough.  They are pleasant, they speak with each little girl like they realize that it's a huge deal for them, and they are perfectly costumed.

I don't know if I could be that patient in the presence of the rabid fan 12-and-under set, especially once the parents get thrown into the mix.  Add a line with a 10-15 minute wait, and it's like a disaster waiting to happen...until it's your turn,  your own little one lights up from within, hands over the autograph book,  and you reach for your camera.  What line?

I found myself staking out the Wishing Well, waiting for Snow White, while a line formed behind us.  I'd gotten the inside info from Ariel during our audience with her that Snow White was just across the way...so I found the spot, there we stood.

Had I known Audrey would be so enchanted by the idea, I'd have planned better; as it was, we were wasting valuable minutes on our last day there to do this.  But I figure, she's only little once; the next time we go, she might not be that into it; so it's okay to let her wear her costume, and enjoy the moment.  I was a little worried about boring the boys, but it turns out that they understood how much she liked it, and they were the ones that pointed Cinderella's passing by us out to me.

We never did get to see Cinderella other than that little exchange where she turned her head and answered my question as she kept walking.   We attempted, but the place where she was holding storytime court was sooo crowded, that standing room only would've been a dangerous proposition.  "Maybe next time,"  I said to Audrey.  The prospect of more rides on her mind, she went off after her brothers without a fuss.

"Where on earth do they find these all these beautiful girls?"  I asked Mr W.  "They're all so amazingly good looking."

Seriously, in the shadow of the dewy light of their youth and good looks, it was all I could do to keep from running into the nearest bathroom in a fit of hysteria, whipping out moisturizer SPF 5000: "Is that a wrinkle? Is it?? Is it ???"  (Oh, yeah.  A real "Mirror, mirror on the wall" flash of insanity.)

My husband, in his either infinite wisdom, or total lack of understanding of anything within the female beauty realm, replied to me that "Yes, they are pretty, but it looks like a heavy makeup job, too."   Hey, good answer, I thought to myself, as I smiled at him in appreciation for his effort before pointing out that they all had wonderful bone structure.  "Do you think they wear wigs?"  he asked next. 

I wondered, would he detour through Las Vegas, on the way home, so I could marry him again?  Ha!

Anyway, I've been pondering off and on over the last couple of weeks, where do they find all the girls?  I mean, certainly, there are probably tons of young ladies eager to have that job, what with the adoration and getting to be (perhaps) your favorite childhood character while getting paid for it.  Aside from the occasional inappropriate stray male comment, I can't imagine it being too horrible a gig.

I have a theory.  You know how you can walk all around Sleeping Beauty's castle, but not actually go inside it?

I've decided it's either a hidden beauty salon, or a lab where they clone them all.

But it's just a theory.

Rough around the edges

I have to say it.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to whoever it was over at Grey's Anatomy for putting Chris O'Donnell on the show.

(And I have to sneak a teeny apology in for Mr W, because, well, I was a little enthused at the sight of the new character on the show...semi-shouting "Yes!  OMG, that's Chris O'Donnell!!" as I pumped my arms up into the air, semi-rising off the couch, suddenly realizing, yes, oops, I did that and I said that out loud.  Sorry.)

I have always liked him, but thought he had a little too much of a boyish look about him, and there he was, tucked into the edge of the show, looking like a man.   When Meredith furiously took up her knitting again at the sight of him, I mentally did it too, except my yarn, it started to smoke...McDreamy who??

Bless you, costume designer, or whoever it was, that made scruffy the norm there.  Surely someone over at Gillette is having palpitations over this, that so many attractive men on a high-rated show are not shaving.   

It's fantastic.  

I'm not saying there are no merits to a freshly-shaved face, but a scruffy one just has a charm all its own.   It invites you to touch it.  It makes you wonder, is that gonna tickle, up against my neck?

I will definately be tuning in next Sunday.

And on Friday morning, after he leaves for work, I'm throwing out my husband's razors.

Better move on, calm down...how about the Six?

Saturday Six - Episode 103  

1. Assuming you have a DVD player and a show you usedto enjoy becomes available on DVD...what is the deciding factor on whether or not you'll actually buy it?  I like owning DVD's,yet I don't own any of my favorite shows.  Many of them are on as reruns, so I catch them that way.  I never really think to look for them on DVD, now that you mention it.  Some shows, I might rent to catch up on or see what the hype is about, like Lost.     

2. What do you find generally more offensive: the average prime time television show or the people who want their own personal standards of decency to be the guidelines the networks must follow?  Hmm.  Most average prime time tv shows are already so watered down, they are hardly truly offensive.  The people who want to bend the networks to their will are more offensive, I think, because I don't care if they don't want the word "panties" uttered on network tv, but they seem to think I should.  They get all crazed about something they have control over--if you don't like it, change the channel, or turn the tv off, don't launch some campaign against the network over "panties."   

3. If you were in charge of the FCC, which of the following would be your priority when it comes to decency on the airwaves: cutting down on violence, sex or profanity?  I don't know.  Sex?  It's everywhere, and I find myself having to change the channels during commercials.  (I'm no prude, but sometimes, I feel like it when the little ones are around...that orgasmic shampoo from Clairol, whoa, a winner in the "what's that all about, Mommy?" dept.

4. Take this quiz (if you haven't already!): What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?

You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're normal, but deep down you really just want to strip off your clothes and roll around in chicken fat.

Uhm, okaaay.  Next!

5. One of those crazy remodeling shows appears at your door one day and offers to redo any room of your house or apartment for free, but that it can only be one single room that gets a makeover. Would you let them in, and if so, which room would you choose and why?  The family room or our bedroom.  Places everyone spends lots of time, socializing...and getting on each other's nerves.  I am the Pied Piper of the children...whatever room I'm in, they slowly trickle into too.  There is no escape, so I may as well be comfortable. At least once a night, Mr W bellows "OUT!  All of you!!" (including me, sometimes :p)  Coincidentally, these are also the rooms with the tvs. lol

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #86 from cdmmw2: Do you recall your first kiss? Did you think that kissing was worth the hype??  I recall my first kiss being kind of embarrassing.  I pushed him away from me, off my porch, and he nearly fell.  I was appalled, in an 'eww' way.  Poor Mr W, luckily he recovered, we tried again another night, and I figured out it wasn't 'eww' at all.  There's nothing like making out...wait a minute.  Didn't I start this Six to calm down??  Mmmwuah!