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Showing posts from June, 2010

Typical Monday

Stayed up too late, didn't want to get up, slept in

Dirty floors that need cleaning

The contents of cluttered closets spewed out onto the bedroom floor
Emails, blogs, lolcats
A very late afternoon shower
Found the dining room table top again
Dust everywhere
More laundry

More dirty dishes (still not washed, only made)

Lost library books found

Computer Games

Dinner, sort of

Movie Watching

Folded baskets of clean clothes overflowing

Bath time

Blog time
Realization:  It's Tuesday, actually.


I am that girl, the one who sits in the back row and doesn't meet your eye.
I am that girl, the one who looks busy reading or writing or something.  I'm focused on something that seems absorbing or important and I don't notice you noticing me.
I am that girl, the one who recognizes you.  But you don't recognize me and I don't remind you who I am.  I give a little smile and keep walking, hoping that you won't see my cheeks flame red, hoping I don't look afraid.
I am that girl, the one who abhores small talk and really stinks at making it.  I can never think of a relaxed and clever thing to say and so I usually say nothing.  Or even worse, I ask the same thing twice.
I am that girl, the one who is called 'quiet' or 'reserved.'  I've even been called 'stuck-up.' 
I am that girl, the one who didn't live up to all her potential.  The one who didn't finish school, who didn't walk the path expected, who happily settled into anot…

Dear Joshy Boy,

This afternoon I was lying in bed with your sister, listening to the soft swishing sound of her breath while she slept.  She was snuggled into the crook of my arm, her bare cheek against the squishy part of my shoulder, snug like a bird in a nest. 

My thoughts flitted back to a time when you fit into this little nest.  I still remember your downy soft blonde (ish) hair, your plump cheeks, your perfect little lips and nose.  While I was lying there with her, thinking of you, I felt a little sad.

Pretty soon, in less than two months in fact, you will be 12.  Twelve!  T W E L V E.  I am not sure how and when, exactly, that happened.  I blinked and suddenly you were half an inch from five feet tall and your hair was brown.  I imagine with dread a time when your wings will fully sprout and you'll jump from this nest.  The loneliness of your growing up is already tangible even though it is (hopefully) still far away.

This tinge of sadness is nothing in the face of the joy you bring me …

My daughter is very happy

when she drives me down the crazy road and leaves me there with a flat tire.

Did you know

The sound you hear when you crack your knuckles is actually the sound of nitrogen gas bubbles bursting.

The pupil of the eye expands as much as 45 percent when a person looks at something pleasing.

Temperatures have been cooling since 2002, even as carbon dioxide has continued to rise.

The recent oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is not the biggest oil spill ever.  In fact, there have been three larger spills to date: the Lakeview Gusher, Gulf War, and Ixtoc I.  The Ixtoc I also occurred in the Gulf of Mexico and took 10 months to cap.

A 10-gallon hat barely holds 6 pints.

A sneeze travels out your mouth at over 100 m.p.h.

According to a British law passed in 1845, attempting to commit suicide was a capital offense. Offenders could be hanged for trying.

Almost a quarter of the land area of Los Angeles is taken up by automobiles.

Back in the mid to late 1980's, an IBM-compatible computer wasn't considered a hundred percent compatible unless it could run Microsoft's Flight…

A note from my mom

(In email form, via my dad.  "She" is my sister, the favorite-ist Aunt Cha-Cha that ever what was.  Kadin is Josh's cousin.)

She made it home at 11:50.  Kadin  crashed at 10:50 and Josh made it all the way.  All he wanted to do was talk about D. C. He wanted to know  if she made it to the smithsonion , other points...He ( Josh ) slept in her bed last night. And he made it this morning.   He made the bed like any boy the sheets were on the floor blankets on the bed.

Bliggity Bloggity Random

1.  There is a bug in my house somewhere.  The biting kind.  It's systematically eating my body, bite by bite.  No one else has a single bug bite.  I'm really annoyed and I don't know where said bug lives.  But when I find it! SQUISH!

2.  We are out of computer paper.  I really like printing things.  It's really quite sad.

3.  Carly has just informed me (in a rather insulted voice): "Mommy I am going in my room to play!"  She has such a sad, sad life.

4.  If, like me, you have mortality on your mind and you don't have your will prepared, you can do what I did and visit this site.  It's free, it's easy, it's simple.  A more complicated and expensive version can come later, but I highly recommend the peace of mind.

5.  I am a closet QVC addict.  Sometimes between the old lady clothes and Joan Rivers appearances, they have really cool stuff.  Like this here computer that I'm just salivating over.  I am sure I could write a novel on it.  Or ge…

Hair Affair

I've come to the conclusion that black women, (women of color, African American women, sista's - pick your pleasure) must be more brave than your average white girl.  I can't help but admire how they transform themselves continually, and I'm specifically talking about hair.  I'm scared to let the scissors near my hair.  It might be too short (heaven forbid).  It might be too layered, too big, too frizzed, too much, too little, too round.  So most of the time it just looks a mess.  I wish I had the bravery of a strong black woman.  I hope Carly does when she's grown. 

And so I took her to the salon.  For you other clueless white people, this hairdo is called a crochet.  It's like extensions, but not.  First the stylist put Carly's hair in cornrows.  Then she actually crocheted hairpieces on to the cornrows.  It was a fascinating (and lengthy) process.  Most important, Carly loves it.  Next time we'll try extensions to see how it looks/behaves differe…

I suppose I'm getting old

This conclusion was reached tonight, while I was writing my will.


"Old Woman Sleeping" by Dutch painter Cornelis Bisschop circa 1668.  Image here.

I love it when

my children are sleeping.  The swell of their chubby cheeks, mouth open, hair wild against the pillow.  The sound of the soft in-out-in breathing, the baby sized snores, the drool pooling on the pillowcase.

It's like a little bit of magic.

When I tuck the blanket up under their chins and they sigh, it erases all the frustrations of a day spent in competition.  When the sun is up, the race is on to be the one mom's paying the most attention to.  They quibble, they argue and bicker, they snap and snide and generally test every particle of my patience.  They look for trouble and find it.  They complain, they moan, they murmur, they cajole.  They promise to 'never do it again', they apologize, they hug and kiss and then skip right back out to repeat their little acts of treason.

But at night, I can scoop their innocence up with starlight and drink it in.

At night, they are perfection.

I love it when my children are sleeping.