It's the old small talk!
Beth asked for it, and I totally love her.
Sir did it, and he is one of my absolute favorites.
And because I spent many lonely teenage hours working on my handwriting (I *really* wanted my signature to look more like a logo than a signature), I’m sharing it with you. Please enjoy my very favorite piece by Mark Strand. It was written about you, you know.
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Our parent/teacher conference is on Thursday evening, and I have volunteered to bring a food item to school for the teachers to snack on during the conferences. Because my mind tends to swim around in paltry waters and I want my food item to be a Memorable and Thoughtful food item (preferably containing a protein of some sort because that’s what I tend to crave these days), I’m obsessing about what to bring.
My brain is telling me to buy a 30 pack of Taco Bell tacos.
My heart is telling me to create an out of this world vegetarian taco dip casserole thing.
My daughters are telling me to bake brownies.
My husband is telling me that he’s leaving town on Wednesday and won’t be returning until approximately two minutes before our first conference.
Any recommendations?
In completely unrelated news, if you follow me on Twitter, you’ll notice that I’ve come out of hiding (I’m not so good at Twitter, if one may be considered Good at Twitter) and am now completing nearly every one of my thoughts with #momspotting. I’ll be telling you more about that in the coming weeks, but for now, here’s a video that will surely catapult you to the edge of your seats.
Vegetarian taco dip, right? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
The first book my book club read was Revolutionary Road. Because I recommended the book, I read it. On book club night, we watched the movie, discussed the book while eating at Canyon Cafe, and chose our next book .
The second book my book club read was The Other Queen. I tried to read it. Really, I did. And when the book club scheduled the next gathering and I hadn’t even made it to the halfway point, I purchased the audio book. And I tried to get through it. But I failed. And when I went to the meeting to discuss the book, I spent most of my time discussing the lemon bars I had made. (They were really great lemon bars! Worth talking about! Mary, Queen of Who?!)
The third book my book club read was Three Cups of Tea. And something must be wrong with me, because I couldn’t get through that one, either. And when the book club scheduled the next gathering and I hadn’t even made it to the halfway point, I purchased the audio book. And I tried to get through it. But I failed. (Does this paragraph sound oddly familiar?!) I had a migraine the night of the bonfire/discussion session—which bums me out to this day, because come on. Bonfire. I still haven’t read the book.
The fourth book my book club read was The Shack. And get this. We chose the book sometime in April, I believe, and I’M STILL NOT FINISHED WITH IT. We’re meeting on Sunday, and I have about forty more pages to go, which means I’ll probably get through it, but what is wrong with me?! I can’t read a book in six months? And it’s a book about God! I should totally be done with it by now!
I’m still working on Infinite Jest. I had a brief e-mail exchange last week with a woman who summed up my feelings perfectly. The more I read this book, the more I fall in love with it, and the more I don’t want it to end. So I’m reading it very slowly. Too slowly. I don’t even believe I’ve reached page 300 yet.
I am not getting any smarter, Internet, and I believe it’s because I’m not reading as much as I should.
I blame silk and wool.
What are you reading these days? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
My father and I have a problem.
We’re chili fans, you see, and it seems that RB Rice has stopped producing their chili block, which was a vital ingredient in our Perfect Chili recipe. Without the RB Rice chili block, we’re left shaking our heads and throwing beans and spices around all willy nilly.
Dad has found that the recipe on the back of the Brooks Chili Seasoning bag is good, and adding a can of drained kidney beans makes it even better.
I have been known to melt Hershey bars in my chili. Once again, I have no idea what I’m doing.
Are you sitting on The Perfect Chili Recipe? Cough it up, my friend.
My father and I are starting to feel desperate.
And ’tis the season. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
One of the Pudding kids is not eating the turkey we pack for her lunch. According to her best friend, she throws her turkey away Every Single Day. That’s a lot of wasted turkey.
One of the Pudding kids has not been washing her hands after using the bathroom. Instead, she finishes using the bathroom, turns the water on for ten seconds, turns it off again, and walks out thinking she has fooled us. However, I caught her this morning, so she has lost her Washing Hands in Private privileges until further notice. Everyone is sick. EVERYONE. You HAVE to WASH your HANDS. (Yes. I’m very paranoid about this.)
The sink in the kitchen is backed up and I believe it’s because of tree roots growing into our front yard pipes. The plumber came out last year and predicted that he would be making yearly visits to clear the roots. Today is the day. Meanwhile, the kitchen, which is normally fairly messy, is Messy Deluxe. And this is two hundred dollars that we really should not be spending.
While taking Harper to school an hour ago, I drove past a bunch of protestors dancing and yelling at cars while waving their hands in the air like a bunch of idiotic marionettes near the Jewish Communty Center. From what I could gather during my ten second drive-by, they “HATE OBAMA the ANTI-CHRIST!”, they know that “JEWS will be FORCED to REPENT! NOW!”, and “HEALTHCARE for EVERYONE is STUPID!” And, you know what? After the whole turkey/handwash/sink thing, I was already nearing the end of my wits. When Harper asked me to read the signs to her, for the first time ever, I refused. All I could say was, “I don’t think they’re being very nice, Harper.” You know, I respect anyone’s right to speak their mind, if they can do it respectfully and intelligently. In fact, I encourage it! More importantly, I won’t hit you with my car if I disagree with you! But I have to say, standing near an elementary school with a poster of President Obama painted to look like Satan? Really? Worst of all, I saw at least three kids amongst the protestors. Kids who were laughing and yelling out hateful things at passing cars.
I’m tired. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
According to my calendar, this week we’ll see the frost moon, a day to vote, and Roy Roger’s birthday.
Last night found the girls dressed up exactly as they were for last week’s Trunk or Treat minus the rain plus the pink hair.
The night before last saw us posing to show off my recently completed February Lady. (And yes. Harper had whiskers. Actually, she still does! They’re very faint. Don’t mention them to her unless you want to see her explode.)
Today? A late brunch with my road trip posse and an appointment to see a store about some yarn. I have been told that all my cousin wants for Christmas—all he has EVER wanted—is a pair of hand-knit socks. Hand-knit socks for his Size 13 feet. I need to see what I can do about that.
Good morning, NaBloPoMo. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Bruce Springsteen was in town last night, and I have a friend who works for him. (And I wish the friend lived closer than she does, because I do believe we’re quite compatible in the Hanging Out While Knitting and Drinking Coffee department—which is one of my very favorite departments.) I met her for the first time last year when Mr. Springsteen was in town, and she completely floored us by giving us total VIP treatment.
When we arrived at the Scottrade Center for last night’s show, I couldn’t get past Security because I had brought a gift for my friend and a knitted hat for Mr. Springsteen. When I called her to explain the situation and apologize for the inconvenience, she quickly rescued us and took us backstage where (are you ready for this?!) we stood outside Mr. Springsteen’s dressing room and heard him yell, “Hey, Lady!” when one of his staff members entered. Also? I stood less than twenty feet away from Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg as they ate chicken skewers. I watched Steven van Zandt contemplate dinner options. We passed Nils Lofgren (and Tony La Russa) in the hall. Did I mention the chicken skewer thing?! (Seriously. That was a high point.)
When I worked at the hospital as a bagger of the dead, I would occasionally turn my badge over and wrap a stethoscope around my neck for the walk down to the cafeteria. I found that people respected the stethoscope more than the Unit Secretary badge, and they would often clear the way for me as I returned to the SICU with milk and Kit Kat in hand. Since leaving the hospital, I haven’t really had the chance to duplicate that feeling of power I experienced while wearing the stethoscope around my neck, until last night when I had this on my chest:
When we took our place in the pit, I caught at least a dozen people staring at my chest (that NEVER happens) and then whispering for their friends to stare at my chest. This badge quickly became my Bruce Springsteen Stethoscope.
Highlights of my night: Watching Mr. Springsteen playing piano and singing “For You.” (I’ll update to the St. Louis video if it becomes available. It was absolutely perfect.) Getting a quick visit in with my friend. The chicken skewer thing. “She’s the One” (my favorite Springsteen tune).
Highlight of Jeff’s night: Being part of Mr. Springsteen’s crowd surfing moment during “Hungry Heart.” He was able to grab a leg o’ Bruce, and when I asked if it was muscular, he smiled and answered, “It was strong.”
When the show ended, we walked back to our car in the parking garage and found that our battery was dead. We called AAA and they weren’t able to get to us until over an hour after the final car had left the garage. AND, they were unable to get their truck to us because of the low ceilings in the garage. SO, the AAA guy had to walk his big battery thing up five flights of steps to help us out. (Thanks, Jake from AAA!) In other words, I’m now working from four hours of sleep, but I have absolutely zero complaints, for I saw Roy Bittan eat chicken, and the only thighs Jeff has touched in the past decade or more belong to me and Mr. Bruce Springsteen.
(I’ve received word that my hat made it onto Mr. Springsteen’s flight last night from St. Louis to Kansas City. This news will keep me smiling for at least 37 days.)
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Tonight was Trunk or Treat at the girls’ school. To prepare, we signed up for a parking spot (#29! Because you’re only as old as you feel!), I hemmed Harper’s Sleeping Beauty dress, I purchased treats for 200 kids, I cleaned out the back of the car, and I carved a pumpkin. (I’m proud of my pumpkin. Full disclosure: Yes. I used a pattern.)
Because our neighbors are not very enthusiastic about Halloween, this is pretty much it for the girls. And they were a tiny bit excited.
Harper, as I mentioned earlier, is Sleeping Beauty. Meredith? Meredith is a Barbie Dancing Diva. Yes she is.
Sadly, I had No Idea how seriously some people are about Trunk or Treat.
Notes for next year:
Business:
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It’s a bit tiresome (for me) when people assume that anyone with a nice camera is a professional photographer.
On a similar note, it’s exasperating (for me) when people armed with nothing BUT a nice camera assume they are professional photographers.
Our wedding photographer sucked. SUCKED. And while I can sort of blame him for sucking, I also have to blame myself for choosing him. (His portfolio was really good! Then again, of course it was! He’s not going to showcase crappy photos, right?)
Because tomorrow is our anniversary, this morning I pulled out our monster wedding album to show the girls what we looked like on our wedding day. As expected, they loved my dress and laughed at how much younger we looked back then. (It was eight years ago. Did we really look that much younger?!) While flipping through the album, one of the first questions Meredith asked was, “Why weren’t you smiling?”
I’ll tell you why I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t smiling because the photographer told me not to smile. After taking a few photos, he came up to me and whispered, “I’m going to have to ask you to not smile in your photos today. Your braces are giving my flash a ding.” And because I’m spineless, every wedding photo finds me portraying an awkward combination of Smug and Your Angry Mother.
Get this. Within thirty minutes of the start of the wedding, the pastor told us that the photographer is not allowed to take photos of the ceremony as it’s taking place, and that includes photos of the wedding party walking down the aisle. (What?! Thanks for leaving THAT out until the last minute!) The photographer scratched his head and came up with the brilliant idea of us PRETENDING to walk down the aisle. Yes. I now have photos of my family standing still in a big room but posing As If They Were Walking Down An Aisle. Ridiculous.
One of the requests I made of the photographer when we signed our contract was “Don’t use any filters.” (We didn’t want sparkles or rainbows to appear where there were no sparkles or rainbows. We are ADULTS, you know.) Anyway, because he wasn’t allowed in the church during the ceremony, the photographer decided to stand outside of the church, open the doors, and take photos of the ceremony taking place from behind. Those photos were filled with pews and backs of heads, and to add insult to injury, he used a filter to make everything look smoky—as if the church was on fire. (Sadly, we didn’t purchase any of the Church on Fire photos, and he didn’t let us keep the proofs.)
Finally, as we were eating our dinner at the reception, the photographer approached us and said, “Look. I need to get out of here. Can you take a break from eating so we can do the first dance and the cake?” Because we were basically trick monkeys at this point, we took a break. And we danced. And we ate cake. And when we got the photos back, there was no evidence of us dancing or eating cake. However, there’s a really awesome shot of us toasting to a long life. And in that photo, a headless German boy is dancing on Jeff’s head.
