Griffin

If you hear of a dognapping in the area, I'll go ahead and confess - it was us. Okay, me. I'll not implicate my innocent family.

What, pray tell, would compel me to commit such a heinous act and embark upon a life of crime?

This guy ... meet Griffin.

Because if I were ever going to dognap a dog, it would be this one. There is none other that I want.

Here's how it happened. A few weeks ago, a friend of ours asked my husband if we would be willing to dog-sit for the weekend. As in, bring his dog to our house. My husband (oh-so-wisely) put the query to me, and to our mutual surprise, I said, Sure, why not? With the following conditions: YOU make sure the fence is secure, YOU feed the dog, YOU walk the dog, YOU take care of any and all requirements pertaining to the care of the dog. Having thus absolved myself from any onerous obligations, I resigned myself to tolerate having a dog in my house for a weekend.

What happened, of course, was that this scraggly little pooch stole my heart. I mean, just look at that face! What can I say about Griffin? Probably first and foremost, the thing I loved best about little Griffin is this: not once did he make any attempt to lick me. Not once. That alone sets the bar high for any dog which may come after him. So very high.

As if keeping his tongue to himself wasn't enough to forge an undying attachment to him on my part, Griffin also happens to be a love bug. Docile, sweet, gentle. Say a word to him, or merely glance in his direction, and he rolls over onto his back and looks up at you with a face that simply says, Rub my belly. It is slightly reminiscent of the dog in the movie Up: "My name is Dug. I have just met you, and I love you."

We didn't tell the kids beforehand that we were dog-sitting. We thought that would be a fun surprise. It was. It played out like this: The kids walked in from school, saw Griffin, and immediately exclaimed in ecstatic and rapturous wonder, We got a dog??!!

To which we laughed, and said... no.

Don't worry, they were not scarred (on some level, they knew such a fortune could not possibly be true); the initial disappointment was eased plenty enough just knowing we had a whole weekend with our new friend.

As a family still grieving the loss of the old man cat, we showered our pent-up affection on this willing recipient. I knew I was sunk when the little guy snuggled up in bed with between us at night - and I liked it. (Not to besmear the memory of the old man cat, but did he ever snuggle with us? Uh, no.) That dog has a special way about him.

When it came time for Griffin to go home, how the tears did flow from you-know-who. And I'm not embarrassed to tell you that the first couple of days without him, I missed him something fierce.

*In case the father of the sweet girl to whom Griffin belongs is reading this, of course you know I'm kidding about the dognapping. Besides, we already returned your house key.

The latest stack

Well, I've done it again. Why can't I stop myself? After a quick afternoon trip to my favorite branch of the Austin Public Library, I returned home with yet another insurmountable pile of books. The three books I had on hold were ready, plus I found a few others.

Is this a sickness? It's like being at a buffet and not being able to stop yourself from piling 2 weeks of food onto your plate. Sure, you're hungry. But you're not THAT hungry. I feel like a glutton. Why can't I leave some of these books on the shelf? What am I afraid of? It's not like they're going anywhere. At least not for more than 3 weeks.

So, here's what I've got and I've got 3 weeks to get 'em read.

The three on top are books on CD (for the kids) for the car. And one of the books is my daughter's (The Battle of the Labyrinth). And one of them I actually just finished (Into Thin Air). But I didn't photograph the one I'm currently reading (The Sun Also Rises). I don't know, maybe the stack isn't so daunting after all. Besides, I'm anticipating having oodles of time over Thanksgiving. Because that always happens.

P.S. I love you, Library.

Meet your favorite rock star author

I know Betty White thinks that Facebook is a huge waste of time, but here's is why I disagree (for the most part.)

The other day as I was scanning my Facebook page I noticed that one of my friends had posted a quick comment about an upcoming event (that very day) taking place at a local bookstore. It was the world release party (WORLD release, people) of the latest in the Diary of Wimpy Kid series. The author himself would be on hand signing copies of the book and meeting his young fans.

Being the mother of a Wimpy Kid fan, I knew I would be AWESOME MOM if I surprised my kid and took him to the event. A quick internet search provided all the necessary information. With an assist from my husband and a quick call to my Facebook friend, we were armed with a plan to head downtown, pick up our copy of the new book, and meet the man himself - Jeff Kinney. Woo-hoo!

All thanks to Facebook. Someone should tell Betty White how useful it can be. You never know, it could even help you get a gig hosting SNL.

We came. We stood in line. We slung mashed potatoes. We stood in line. We sat. We stood in line. We took pictures. We stood in line. We read the entire new book, cover to cover. We stood in line. We stood in line. We stood in line. We met Jeff Kinney. Whew.

My feet hurt. The boy's head hurt. We were hungry. We were tired. Would we do it again? You bet. Why?

That's why.

[Imagine the Rocky theme in your head]

I just wrapped up week 5 of my renewed exercise campaign. My forty-and-fabulous campaign. Although I'm fairly certain I will reach forty-one before I reach fabulous. But then I will just change the campaign slogan to forties-and-fabulous. Either way, it's a goofy slogan.

Much to my own surprise, my exercise of choice these past weeks has been ... running. (Stop laughing, Dad.)

Now why would I go and do a thing like that? I wasn't sure myself the answer to this question. But then I recognized that I happen to be surrounded by a particularly wacky group of people - let's call them runners. People who run even though there is absolutely nothing chasing them.

I live with one. I am married to one of these runners. He likes running. For real. In fact, he likes it so much that he has signed up to run the Austin marathon. Again. He's looking forward to it. Wacky, right?

My sister-in-law is also a runner. I've never explicitly asked her, but I'm pretty sure she likes it, too. She runs marathons. Plural. In many ways, I want to be like her - because she is very cool. Today is her birthday. And what did she do on this day, her birthday? Yeah, she ran. Dear Sheila, you are an inspiration to me.

I am also related by blood to one of these people. My brother. He runs. In fact, you could say that the man is a veritable running fool (right, Dad?) But he's the kind of runner I can really relate to. The kind of runner who looked at me on the eve of his running the half-marathon and said, with a sigh and a pained expression on his face, "I hate running." But did that stop him? No way - the man ran his 13.1 miles, and then threw down some DoubleDave's.

So, you may say it was inevitable that I would be drawn into this insanity. Peer pressure. The need to belong. The desire to be a contender in the annual Villa Sabine Mini-Triathlon (oh yeah!)

But here's the really weird part: I like it. Maybe not the running per se, but there definitely is something about it that is very nearly enjoyable. It could be the challenge, the solitude, the endorphins, the satisfaction of reaching of a limit and then pushing past it, the almost imperceptible thing called progress.

Yeah, I like it.

And the grief goes on

Two days from now, it will be one month since we lost our old man kitty. I still tear up when I come home and he isn't at the door waiting for me food. Sometimes I think I hear him down the hall. I even miss his caterwauling (well, that not so much.) In these past few weeks, each of us has traveled varying distances on our own winding paths of grief.

It is a painful thing to watch this grief wash over your child. I will never forget the night before he left us, the night we all came to realize that his life was slipping away. How we cried together. How we fawned over him. How we longed to ease his suffering. My son sitting at the table eating his dinner and bursting into tears at the sound of our little friend's pained cries. How my heart nearly broke at the two mingled sounds.

My own pain at the loss of him has eased in this time. Age and perspective and the cares of this life intervening to dull its effects. Until the sweet girl comes out of her room at night, tears in her eyes, with the now anticipated words on her lips ... I miss kitty. My own pain is further diminished when I consider the magnitude of hers, when her broken heart is written there, on her face, in her voice. And then a fresh pain, the pain of a mother, as she utters the words that pierce me - I just want him to come back. If only I could give that to her.

But I can't.

So, I do what I can. I lie with her in the dark and hold her. I let her cry. And I cry, too. I let her talk. I suppress my own desire to speak, to fix, to coax the tears away. I stroke her tear-streaked face, and listen to her pour out her grief. I listen as she tells me she doesn't think there is another kitty in the whole world like our kitty. And I agree. I listen as she lays out a plan to honor and remember him. At the appropriate time, I remind her of that silly thing he used to do and elicit a shared chuckle amid the sobs. The pain is still there. But grief once shared becomes a lesser burden. And sleep comes.

She showed me today the drawing she made and taped upon her door....

... and I wondered if her grief would ever end.

And then she speaks of the future, of the kitties which are to come.... And I am reminded that life goes on, that though the heart does not forget, it yet was made to be healed. And healing slowly comes.

A girl and her kitty

Her first word was meow.

I still remember the day she discovered him. I mean, really discovered him. It happened fast and he escaped so quickly (but not as quickly as he could have) that by the time I got the camera it was over. But I remember her face. Her face was bliss. And his little kitty life was never the same.

I always marveled at how much he was willing to put up with at her hands. Perhaps he sensed there was no malice in her touch - just pure, absolute adoration. Perhaps he sensed her gentle spirit. Perhaps he sensed that a girl with a heart as soft as hers needed a soft and pliant kitty on which to lie. Perhaps he secretly enjoyed being that kitty.

There has never been a time in her life when he wasn't in it.

Until now.


In loving memory of our sweet old man kitty, Sebastian

March 1996 - September 2010

Encouragement

A friend shared this verse via Facebook today,

Come and let us return to Jehovah;
For He has torn us, but He will heal us,
And He has stricken us, but He will bind us up.

Hosea 6:1

My very first thought when I read it, was AHA! I knew it! HE has torn us. HE has stricken us.

But then I read again. And my heart softened (cue miraculous music).

But He will heal us.
But He will bind us up.

[sigh] It has been quite the doozie of a week. Twice this week I collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep. This is something I never do. But this week really did me in. And to be honest, this past year has really done me in. This past two years. Okay, nearly this past decade. I am tired. I am torn. I am stricken. I am wallowy. (I made that word up.) For years I have been descending deeper into this abyss of self-pity, desperate for rescue, yet each day more confidently assured there was no hope of rescue for me. And I remain ever stubborn, hardened, unturned, unyielding, unwilling to return.

And here on this day, the culmination of a week of being pressed beyond my limits, this verse. From a friend who has endured her own week (and more) of affliction and has need of its comforting as much or more than I. And not only that, but also on this day, this friend entered in to my life to meet another of my needs, most graciously and sweetly.

Does she know that her coming was God's coming? That her presence was God's presence? That her comfort was God's comfort?

That is not all of the comfort of today, but it is all I can bear to share. And Hosea 6:3:

Therefore let us know, let us pursue knowing Jehovah:
His going forth is as sure as the dawn,
And He will come to us as the rain,
As the latter rain which waters the earth.

Family Night

At our beloved local library. (Since we had about 20+ books that were due -- TODAY. And nothing makes me want to kick myself more than owing the local public library money for all of my free books.)

One of my favorite sights of the day:Like we aren't busy enough with the onset of school, here's our latest stack serving its dual purpose of holding down the hearth. (Notice one of the titles is Deadly Perils and How to Avoid Them. I just noticed that one. Yes, my 11-year-old son picked it out.)
So, I mentioned in my last post that I was starting Anne of Green Gables. How did I not read this book as a youngster?? Love it! I continue to be surprised each time the storytelling causes an involuntary smile to break forth on my face. In fact, the other day I was so enrapt in the book I actually ran into an old guy on campus (old guy = distinguished professor who works in my building), a collision which sent my beautiful Italian bookmark flying across the floor (recovered, unharmed.) I told you this would happen some day. Thankfully, I didn't hurt Dr. So-and-so, nobody fell down and only a few scattered people were witnesses - if they noticed, they pretended not to. To be fair (to me), he did stop very abruptly and change direction right in front of me. In the future, I'll be watching out for this guy.

The Red Pony

I just finished reading The Red Pony, by John Steinbeck. It was a very satisfying little book. I would love to recommend it to my son, but I have learned that the surest way to disinterest him in something (i.e. a book) is for me to suggest it to him. [sigh]

Any strategies out there to combat this phenomenon?

I eagerly await your wisdom. In the meantime, I will share with you a little quote. It is short. It may not strike you the way it struck me. That's okay. I think its poignancy is somewhat lost out of context. But anyway.... Just picture a 10-year-old boy growing up on a ranch in northern California around the 1930s. The boy has been given a responsibility and a promise and is setting off to complete his task with a sense of earnestness and importance.

The warm morning sun shone on Jody's back so sweetly that he was forced to take a serious stiff-legged hop now and then in spite of his maturity.

That's all. Just felt like sharing a tiny tidbit. Now it is on to Anne of Green Gables.

Sewing Camp

Have you heard of such a thing? Well, I hadn't. But thanks to our friend, Jennifer (thank you, thank you!), now I have. And not only have I heard of it, but thanks again to wonderful Jennifer, my daughter was a happy attendee in the camp last week. For those of you who have a little girl (or boy, because why can't a boy want to sew?) who's itching to get creative with a sewing machine, just visit Austin School of Fashion Design to find out all of the camp info. As I understand it, they also have classes during the school year and even classes for adults (like me) who own a sewing machine but haven't the foggiest idea what to do with it (me) and who may be currently using their sewing machine table as a TV stand (yeah, me).

Back to my awesome girl, though. Over the course of the week she made a hat, a purse, a shoulder bag, an apron, and at least 11 little pouches. Here's a picture of her wearing most of her handiwork.

And the cute little purse with a hand-sewn button.

And the many, many pouches. Very pleased with herself, she is.

True to her generous nature, she made gifts of the many pouches to family members - I was the recipient of the chic red and black paw print pouch, which is the perfect size for my cell phone.

And this is the girl in action. No hesitation, no fear. Speedy Gonzalez, they call her.

The following project was not a part of sewing camp per se, but was more the inspiration. Jennifer has been spending some quality time with our daughter over the last couple of months and they have been working on a very special project together. This project was finished on the final day of sewing camp, providing a wonderful consummation to the week. The project was a special bag in which to carry a very special doll, Julie. Julie is the much cherished American Girl doll received for Emma's 8th birthday and Julie needed a mode of transport. Now she has it.

Stitching of the names and little dog (hard to see) done by Emma.

Jennifer and Emma (and all her stuff!)

Summer Reading List (Completed)

Since I can't muster up enough brain power to string together words into an amalgamation of coherent and/or witty sentences, I give you my summer reading list. A list of the books my nose has been buried in while walking up and down campus this summer, making you nervous for my safety, if you saw me, wondering when I was going to finally trip, fall down, possible break something and most assuredly embarrass myself. (And by "summer" I'm counting all the books I've read since May, since that will make me feel more accomplished even though it is essentially cheating.)

• The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas.
• NurtureShock: New Thinking About Children, by Po Bronson.
• Wintersmith, by Terry Pratchett.
• The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood.
• Islands in the Stream: A Novel, by Ernest Hemingway. My first time reading Hemingway. Loved his style and will be adding more of his works to my list.
• The Lucky One, by Nicholas Sparks. You probably shouldn't follow up a Hemingway novel with something like this - it makes you feel like a literary snob. (No offense intended toward Mr. Sparks. I certainly couldn't write a novel. And anyway, I read it while on vacation at the beach, which it was perfectly suited for.)
• The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde.
• Fantastic Mr. Fox, by Roald Dahl.
• Tuck Everlasting, by Natalie Babbitt.
  
• Girl with a Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier.
• Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
• Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut. This book has been on my to-read list for a while. I really didn't expect to like it and meant to slog my way through it so I could finally just check the darn thing off my list. I was surprised that I was continually drawn to it and found myself sneaking away time to read it. I found the following passage absurdly beautiful:

Billy looked at the clock on the gas stove. He had an hour to kill before the saucer came. He went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.

Here kitty, kitty .... Kitty?

It was so peaceful this morning. No caterwauling at 5:30am. 6:00am. 6:30am. Ahhh.

But I didn't notice the silence. I was sleeping.

I vaguely noticed when I entered the kitchen that the old man cat was not hot on my heels demanding his morning meat paste. Vaguely. I did have a fleeting thought that he must be lying dead somewhere in the house if he wasn't out pestering us (what else could keep him from his meat paste?) Eh. Whatever - the cat's moods cannot be accounted for and I needed to get to work.

I made my breakfast and prepared to leave. I finally heard a distant sound of meowing. Weird, I thought, why is he crying in the back of the house if he wants to be fed? Why doesn't the stupid oaf come to the kitchen instead of trying to wake everyone up? Again, eh. Not my problem. He knows where to come if he wants to be fed.

Almost ready to leave, I hear the meowing again, but this time I perceive the direction from which it emanates. I walk to the door that leads into the garage, unbolt it, and open it. Well, wouldn't you know it - in darts the kitty, wide-eyed, whining, a little dingy, and ravenously hungry (no surprise there).

Huh. That's weird. What is the cat doing in the garage? I do remember bolting the door the night before. I do not remember a fuzzy hulk of a cat breezing past me into the garage to explore its myriad wonders. I bet he felt pretty smug about his stealthiness until he heard the bolt click and the lights went out.

Now, we didn't lock him in the garage all night on purpose. Honest. Sure, sometimes we call him names. Stupid. Whiny. Oaf. Fatty. Dolty McDolterson ... but we really do love him. Honest. Poor little (and I use the term loosely) guy. Stuck in the stuffy, dusty, dark garage all night. No vittles. No prospect of waking up the people with his offensive odors and sounds. We felt bad. Honest. That said, you can be sure we got a good chuckle this morning over his plight.

I am baffled he was able to get into the garage without me noticing, but man, oh man, was it quiet and peaceful this morning!

You can see he's none the worse for wear (picture taken at 4:00pm today).
Um, does he still look mad?

Summer Road Trip Soundtrack

Nearly 2 weeks ago, as we embarked on our most recent road trip to lovely Pensacola Beach, there was a moment. A moment when my heart was charmed. A moment when I fell further into love with the man who sat beside me. A moment in which I was keenly aware of his sweet love for me. I'll get to that moment in a minute. First the background.

Before our 12-hour road odyssey can even begin, there exists the ritual of the frantic organizing and packing and the loading of the minivan. Let me be clear (do I sound presidently?): the frantic part of this equation is me. I accuse no other parties of being frantic. They are not. It's me. I simply become overwhelmed with the magnitude of what must be accomplished in order for us to leave our house. Mostly the tasks are small, but they just never end. It does me in. Every. Single. Time.

In the midst of my frantic packing chores, I decided that what I needed was some music. Something peppy and energetic and uplifting. So I went to the computer, pulled up Pandora, clicked on my ABBA station (yes, I have an ABBA station), and set the volume on high.

You can dance, You can jive, Having the time of your life....
See that girl, Watch that scene....

I then set about my tasks with renewed vitality, singing and um, jiving about the house. (Which scene promises to be a favorite emotionally scarring memory of my children one day.)

Now back to the moment. The car has been packed, the house is secured, the kids are buckled, the cat has been unceremoniously deposited at the kennel. We're heading down Manchaca (for you non-Austinites, that street is pronounced 'man-chack' - just go with it) and I am sorely missing my 70's disco music. I look at my husband and wistfully say, I wish we could listen to ABBA in the car.

Which is his cue. He slyly leans forward, hits the power button on the CD player, and the opening strains of "Dancing Queen" pour through the speakers.

I love that man. He had burned me a CD while I was in freak mode. The man loves me.

Driving out of Austin has never been so fun. But by the time we hit "Fernando" the kids were pretty much done. I was subjected to pathetic whimpers of How long is this CD? and Are we going to listen to ABBA the whole way? wafting forward from the back of the van. I didn't care. On I sang...

If you change your mind, I'm the first in line, Honey I'm still free, Take a chance on me....

Well, wouldn't you know it, by the end of the trip, as we rolled back through Texas, the following question was posed by my son, the heretofore most vocal opponent of ABBA in the van, Hey, can we listen to some ABBA? The girl chimed in, Yeah, yeah! Mamma Mia! Mamma Mia!

Ah, converts.

You can take the boy out of the gym...

.... but you cannot take the gymnast out of the boy.

Haiku fun

A few weeks ago, my son excitedly related to me his idea for a new game. I encouraged him to write down his ideas and create the rules so we could play it. For your family's game night pleasure, I proudly present to you:

"Quicku"

(If any Parker Bros. reps are trolling the internet for new game ideas, we do expect to see some royalty checks when you roll this one out.)

The basic rules are as follows. The game consists of 10 rounds. In each round, a subject card is drawn. (We made our own subject cards, including the following subjects: gum, noodles, soccer, pizza, a rainforest, birthdays, a purse, vegetables, gymnastics, etc.) Each player then has 90 seconds to write a haiku about that subject. Players start with 100 points. You lose 10 points if you fail to complete your haiku, or if your haiku does not follow the proper format. (The scoring needs a little tweaking, and I think some sort of creativity bonus needs to be added in, but for that each round would require an objective judge. I expect you folks from Parker Bros. to iron out all those details.) At the end of the game, whoever has the most points wins.

We actually played the game to test it out. We had fun! Here are a few of our haikus.

Chewing gum is fun
Blowing bubbles is crazy
Gum sticks to your shoes

Pizza is tasty
I like good pepperoni
There are healthy herbs

Made out of leather
Women wear purses a lot
Men do not wear them

Cheese and mushrooms, yum
Dripping, cheesy pizza slice
Wow, I'm getting fat

We love Wii

Ladies and gentleman, the Wii has arrived. And just whose Wii is it? The children's Wii? No, no, no. It is ours. Said Wii was purchased with anniversary cash (thanks Mom & Dad!). It is ours! OURS! We may occasionally allow the cute little people in the house to play it.

Truthfully, though, I imagined the Wii would be ours primarily in name, the kids' in action. But as it turns out, we really like the Wii. As a gift it ranks way up there with the trampoline we got my husband for his birthday one year. After the kids go to bed, we fire that thing up! I can just picture them, tucked snug into their little beds at 8:30, listening to their parents playing the Wii, filled with all kinds of jealously. Poor kids - it's not even dark out at 8:30 in the summer.

My favorite game so far - table tennis. It is, in fact, one of the very first things I did this morning. Sleep til 9:30 (not the norm, but I had a crazy week and my husband had mercy on me), eat a little cereal, play a little ping pong. My daughter was watching me. In the course of play, as I put the hurt on one of my challengers, I did take a moment to explain to her that we only talk smack to our simulated opponents; if we were playing a real game against real people, we would be most respectful, exercising our good sportsmanship. (Yes, top-notch parenting while wildly swinging a remote around my living room. It's impressive.)

The husband's favorite game - golf. Of course. Why does golf bore me so? The upside of Wii golf, though: my husband isn't gone all weekend getting sunburned and I get to chat with him while he tries to make a putt for birdie (is that a thing?) He loves that. I mean, doesn't every man think to himself, Man, golf would be so much more awesome if only I could bring my wife along with me and we could chat about her day and the kids and what we need from the store and which bills are due.... Oh ... they don't? Oh.

If only we had a second Wii remote, we could really heat things up and I could practice good sportsmanship. And I haven't forgotten the original dream: the Wii Dance Dance Revolution. But I only plan to play that one when my kids have their friends over.

Memorial Day Weekend in Pictures

We don't do much, we don't get out much most of the year. (It's hot here, you know.) But on Memorial Day weekend, somehow we find a way to pull out all the stops and go for broke. I don't know why it happens that way. It just happens, thanks to friends that help jump start us into action. Thanks, friends. We love you.

On Sunday evening (on the recommendation of 2 sets of friends) we went to the Zilker Hillside Theater to see a production of DREAM! A Midsummer Night's Dream with a 1960's Music Beat. It was hot - the weather, I mean. So very hot. We have a suggestion for the people that put on these summer programs: How about Winter Shakespeare in the Park? We would totally go for that. Summer heat + lots of people committed to keeping Austin weird + all of their dogs = Not as much fun as it could be. Just a suggestion. Winter. I have a coat. It would be awesome. In spite the heat, though, we really did have an awesome time. Next year, we plan to hit the April shows.

My kiddos, aren't they sweet? They only complained a little. Only fidgeted a lot. In the end, they were enchanted. There were fairies. And 60's music.

The kids got to meet the fairies at intermission. Can you say, HIGHLIGHT? This is Emma with Mustardseed (I think.)

Jared with Puck, a very mischievous fairy.

On Monday, we went with some friends to Bull Creek (our first time after many, many years in Austin.) There is no better way to beat the heat than to have your ten little piggies submerged in cool flowing water. Ahhhh.

My son, so serious, about to slide down the slippery rock 'slide.' From his expression, you'd think he was about to go for the gold.

Tadpole fishing. Good times.

Not my kid, our friends' kid. He doesn't know it, but I love him. He used to think I was okay, when he was four. Now, he's not sure he knows me. Oh, to be 8 again, carefree, and bask in the creek bed!

Not my baby - our friends' baby (the cutest baby EVER!) When Titus helped her go back to her mother, a child who was playing nearby told him, "Someone's stealing your baby!"

This face, this sweet, adorable face, pretty much sums up Memorial Day weekend 2010.

Can I get a LOL?

Everyone thinks their kid is the best. You know you do. Everyone secretly ('cause let's be honest, it would be obnoxious to flaunt it) believes that their kid is the cutest baby. The smartest kid in the class. The most talented kid on the team. The most beautiful child EVER.

Well, mine is the funniest. There. I said it. You'll have to take my word for it, though, as most of her witticisms do not translate into the written word. Plus, well, humor is highly subjective. But whatever - my kid is funny.

Take for example, the other night at the dinner table. We (and by 'we' I mean the children who eat at 5 times the speed of sound) had completed the main portion of our meal, which is the cue for one of the kids to ask a specific question. This night Emma did the honors.

Emma: What can we have for dessert?

Daddy: You can have some nice, fresh air!

Emma: Can we have some fruit with our fresh air?

The girl does not miss a beat. And the deadpan expression is simply not conveyable. Are there any open mic nights for 8-year-olds?

Daddy material

We have some friends who have the cutest baby EVER. Although, she's not much of a baby anymore, streaking pell-mell into toddlerhood. My son, who has a soft spot for babies (much like his father before him), got to spend some time playing with the cutest baby EVER this past weekend. He shared with me afterward how he walked her around the playground, holding her little hand, making sure she didn't fall. He told how, when her adventurous nature led her to imitate some of his prowess on the playground equipment, he helped her to climb and how he held her tightly so she wouldn't slip and hurt herself.

This child is constantly inquiring as to when he will be old enough to babysit. This child has often spoken wistfully about the things he will do with his own children ... someday.

Yesterday, we happened to meet these friends in the gym parking lot and the cutest baby EVER was strapped snugly into her carseat in the back. My son asked if she was in the van, and could he please see her. The mother obligingly rolled down the window and allowed my son to greet and fawn over the cutest baby EVER for a couple of minutes. As I was concerned about the traffic flow in the parking lot, I finally said to him, Okay, enough - time to get going.

My son thanked the mother, and as we walked away he mentioned how happy he was that he got to see her and then added, in all seriousness, "It's an honor."

Young ladies, he'll graduate from college in 2021.

15 years

If, 15 years ago today, the day of my (outdoor) wedding, it had been as humid in Austin, Texas as it is today, I would have cried. It's possible I may have also passed out. And I may have sweated more than it is decorous for a bride to sweat (er... perspire.)

I'm not saying it wasn't warm. Or that the sun wasn't glaringly bright. Or that I didn't get sunburned on the left side of my neck and back. Or that certain parties weren't concerned about the icing on the cake. Or that someone wasn't overheard saying, "It's Africa hot." I'm just saying it wasn't as humid as it happens to be today. So I didn't cry.

We had a good time. We didn't pass out. We got married.

The cake survived, and it was super yummy.

I mentioned to a co-worker today that it was my 15th wedding anniversary and the question came, "So, you still love him?"

Yes, I said. Yes! YES! I love him! I like him. I still love him. I am in love with him. He is my best friend. He makes me laugh. He makes my breath catch in my chest. He is my champion, my protector. He is my hope. He is my completion. He is me and I am him. And yes, I still love him.

Well ... all I actually said aloud to my co-worker was the emphatic, don't-even-have-to-think-before-answering, Yes! But I'm pretty sure the rest was implied.

Game Time

For my rapidly retreating recent birthday, I received a gift of cash, which I finally found time to spend on myself a couple of weeks ago. Yes, mama did get a new pair of shoes! 2 pair, in fact. Plus some other clothes - yea! After my shopping spree, I had a handful of dollars left in my pocket, not enough really for a 3rd pair of shoes, and I have been contemplating what to do, what to do. Today, as we took an impromptu stroll through our local bookstore, I saw the perfect cherry on top to complete my birthday gift....

A little game I have been eyeing for quite some time now. A cute little game that comes in a little yellow zippered pouch shaped like a banana. BANANAGRAMS! I brought the little yellow banana-shaped pouch home and eagerly anticipated playing it with my kiddos.

--thud--

That was the sound of my hopes and expectations for a new family favorite hitting the floor. Don't get me wrong - I love it! But I quickly realized (helped along by my daughter's whimpering, frustrated little face) that it is a game that might just be more fun when the players' skills are more evenly matched. Me vs. my 8-year-old (and my 11-year-old, for that matter) was a little lopsided in the skill department.

Eh. We did what we could. I'm sure we'll amend the game to suit our needs (specifically my need not to make the kids cry.)

Which brings me to my next board game tidbit. One of our current favorites is Apples to Apples. The kids love it, mostly (I suspect) because game time is the time that Daddy breaks out the silly voices and the silly comments and we all break out into general silliness. Plus, the game itself is fun. But we have begun a new tradition recently with the game that everyone looks forward to nearly as much as the game itself.

At the end of the game, each player is left with about 6 or 7 Red Apple cards. Each person takes a turn trying to weave their cards into a coherent sentence/story. For example, if your leftover Red Apple cards were: Airline Food, Vampires, Noisy Neighbors, A Flat Tire, Baby Showers, The Beatles, and The Green Bay Packers, your sentence/story might go something like this:

The Beatles were living next to some Noisy Neighbors, The Green Bay Packers, who kept throwing Baby Showers for Vampires. So they tried to get away, and on the way to the airport they got A Flat Tire, which saved them from eating Airline Food.

Results vary, depending on your cards, but are generally good for a chuckle if not outright hysterics (like the time we played with my parents and my mother had us in stitches!) Recently one of us hit the jackpot with the cards: Bill Clinton, Waterbed, and Glazed Donuts.

Want to play along? Here are a few randomly selected Red Apple cards for you:

Hockey, Brain Surgeons, Nicholas Cage, Girlfriends, Country Music, Elvis Presley and Toasted Marshmallows

Ready .... GO!

Date Nights

This week just concluded was Staff Appreciation Week at my place of employment. A week with perks like free concerts, tours, giveaways, food discounts, etc. Now, I could have saved some folks a lot of trouble putting this week of appreciation together if they had bothered to ask me my opinion. My opinion is that what really would make me feel appreciated is if the powers that be would lift the morale-killing salary freeze they have imposed. But I'm sure the powers that be are under the assumption that we, the masses, are just so darned happy to even have a job that we really don't mind taking one for the faculty team. What starts here changes the world and all that.

Ahem ... I seem to have veered slightly off topic. Where was I? Ah, yes ... date nights.

Of the wonderful perks offered to the staff this week were free concerts (2 tickets, to be exact) from the School of Music. I checked out the calendar and found there was a concert scheduled each night of the week. My first impulse was to take my son, who recently participated in the All-City Music Memory Contest and who has a taste for beautiful music. Upon further reflection I realized that I could not possibly leave my daughter out of the special treatment and decided to take each child on a separate night.

My son and I decided to attend Wednesday evening's concert, featuring the Wind Ensemble. The concert was long, and I wasn't sure my exhausted 11-year-old gymnast-in-training was going to make it through. I gave him the opportunity to leave early, but he declined. My favorite part of the evening was at the end when I looked over at him and he flashed me the sweetest smile and spontaneously exclaimed how great the concert was. I also was quite tickled when at one point during one of the pieces I looked over at him and he was attempting to stifle some giggles. When I leaned in and whispered to him to find out was so amusing, he quietly responded, "I tooted!" Yep. He's eleven.

My daughter and I chose to attend the Thursday evening concert featuring the Jazz Band. I had mentioned to her earlier that people sometimes dress up when they go to a concert and my girlie girl ran with that little tidbit. She appeared ready to go in her fancy long black skirt and a black sparkly top and had pulled her hair up in a fancy little ponytail. I wore jeans. Two things were learned this evening: 1) My daughter likes jazz, and 2) I do not. Like her brother before her, she was given the option of leaving the concert early. She was ambivalent, expressing that though she was very tired (and cold), she really liked the music. In the end, the jazz won, we stayed.

Notwithstanding my earlier comments, I am very happy to have been appreciated this week, as it afforded me the opportunity to spend some sweet one-on-one time with 2 of my favorite people on the earth.

My glam girl on the way to the concert

An embarrassment of riches

I told you exactly 2 weeks ago, as I giddily professed my love for the local library, about my latest stack of books. Six books, to be exact. Books which are due in exactly 1 week. You knew I was kidding when I said I was going to try to read ALL of them in my allotted 3 weeks, right? Just a little literary embellishment. I do that sometimes. Seriously - 6 books read in 3 weeks just isn't going to happen. Not by me, anyway. Especially since two other books I had put on hold became available last week, increasing my stack to 8. Talk about too much of a good thing.

A few I will finish, a few will be renewed, and a few will be returned to the library until next time.

• Franny and Zooey -- Finished!
• The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings -- I inadvertently left off the "and Other Writings" when I listed this last time. I have finished the Tell-Tale Heart (all 5 pages of it - whew) and am tackling some of the other stories/poems when the mood strikes. (Honestly, though, the mood for Poe does not seem to strike often.)
• The Count of Monte Cristo -- I'm on page 174 (of 580) and am completely enthralled.
• Wintersmith - Emma and I started this one, but, as she is currently enthralled with her own chapter book in which she has been working on for a while, we have not gotten very far.
• NurtureShock -- This is one of the newcomers to the stack and I'm about 2 chapters in. I allowed it jump ahead in line because (due to its apparent popularity) someone else already has it on hold, so there will be no renewing.

The rest of the stack, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Handmaid's Tale, and Foundation (the other newcomer, by Isaac Asimov) may not get cracked at all this go-around. But it's okay. I prefer to have too much of a good thing than none of it.

Dear Library, I love you

So, I can't fight the giddy feeling that rises up inside me as I cast a glance over to the passenger seat of my minivan and gaze upon the stack of books I've just procured from my local library. I am brimming with excitement. Giddy, I tell you.

I am such a geek.

Last week I finished the latest book I was reading (A Hat Full of Sky, by Terry Pratchett, if you must know) and had absolutely nothing as a backup in my bag. Or on my nightstand. Or in the car. Or on the coffee table. (I'm not counting the outdated book I got recently about the dangers of MSG.) I always try to keep a backup. Somewhere. Today, I was unprepared, and as I waited for my bus this morning, was left with nothing but the Daily Texan as reading material. Not exciting. And ofttimes, may I say, a tad offensive. (I pick up this free campus newspaper for the daily NY Times crossword puzzle. Duh.)

Once seated at my computer, I plotted to remedy my booklessness. Searched the local library catalog for titles on my to-read list (thank you Goodreads.com) that were available RIGHT NOW at my favorite branch. Was pleased with the results of my search. Scribbled the call numbers on a notepad. Expectantly awaited the afternoon and ... the procurement. I am such a geek.

Ahhh ... beside me, in the passenger seat, my hand protectively resting upon the stack as I rounded each curve, were the following gems (I actually don't know if they are gems yet, as I have not read them, but that is part of the magic - the promise that they hold...):

The Tell-Tale Heart, by Edgar Allan Poe
The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde
The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas
The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood
Franny and Zooey, by J.D. Salinger
and
Wintersmith, by Terry Pratchett

The first five were scribbled on my list. The last one I happened upon, not exactly by chance. But as soon as I pulled it off the shelf and saw the little blue Nac Mac Feegle on the cover, sword raised, fist clenched, I simply had to bring it home with me.

Can I read all of these books in the 3 weeks allotted to me by the Austin Public Library system? At my usual pace, I don't think so, no way. Will I try? Oh, yeah.

Because I am a geek. And the giddiness is making me do it.

Man vs. Nature

Or, Woman vs. Nature

Or, Me vs. Nature

Or, Me vs. My Yard

Or, Me vs. The Rampant Unruly Growth That Has Overtaken My Neglected Yard

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my nemesis:

I liked it when we moved in years ago. Thought it was charming and provided a beautiful backdrop for family photos. I even think it looks pretty in this photo. So richly green and lush.

I'm over that now. I have grown weary of it taking over my trees and my fence and my lawn. I tire of the mosquitoes it harbors.

It's not its fault. But the reign of the ivy is over.







Who else am I warring with?
This guy. I especially like the name of this one - sticky willy. Really. There was an article in the paper on it. It has other names, but sticky willy is my favorite.

A little of this stuff pops up in the yard every year, but this spring it is out of hand. Again, my fault.

But it's easy to uproot and my daughter loves helping me with it.

Gotta use the gloves, though.




Also awaiting conquering:
The leaves. Piles of leaves. Lots and lots of leaves. You may be wondering why I didn't take care of these guys in the fall. Yeah. That would have been a good idea.

Even if I had, though, I'd still be dealing with the live oak leaves, since those lovely live oaks (ah-choo!) love to dump their small hard-to-rake leaves in one big -WHUMP- in the spring.

And finally, the bane of my existence:
The fruit of the chinaberry tree. I hate these things. We've got one chinaberry tree in our yard, and two others that may as well be.

The one redeeming quality of this tree is its blossoms. They are pretty and delicate and our neighborhood becomes heavily perfumed with their fragrance in early April. I love it.

But I'm not sure if a couple of weeks of pleasantness make up for the never ending multitude of gross berries all over my yard. How do I get rid of these things?

I am SO not a gardener. Outdoorsy? No way. But I have determined to reclaim my yard! My ultimate goal is to be able to start a garden of some sort (any sort!) with my darling daughter who dreams of having one. Wish me luck.

The perfect rain

I felt the first few drops as I walked down the street to my bus stop. Sporadic and tentative, they made me happy. It was a lovely day. Ahead of me, the sky was clear and bright and blue; behind me, mildly threatening and dark and gray. A brilliant contrast of sunshine and shadow.

The gullywasher didn't come until I entered the shelter of the bus. Only minutes later, I exited its dry confines with a splash into the unavoidable fast running water on the road surface. The air was rich and aromatic - you know the smell - the indescribable, intoxicating, caressing smell of rain. Spring rain mingled with sunshine. And dirt. For an instant I was transported to youthful days of bare feet and wet hair and rain on my face and girlish joy.

It only took a few moments for my shoes to be soaked through, my slacks wet to the knees. Still, I couldn't stifle the giggles that bubbled up from within. Couldn't unsmile the smile that touched the corners of my mouth. The shoe-preserving dance to avoid puddles and rushing streams was just so silly for all its uselessness. The shoes were drenched. So why not simply walk, in the rain? Why not even skip and dance and shout and allow the water wash over me? How cleansing to heed not the rain!

And I may well have renounced the umbrella altogether, yielded to the joy, had it not been for my good leather jacket and my sensible, grown-up reasoning mind. I clung to the umbrella, salvaged the leather.

But I still giggled.

So you think you can sing

Of course, my brother has Karaoke Revolution Volumes 2 & 3 and Karaoke Revolution Party for his PlayStation. Of course, my brother has a PlayStation. Our household currently has no game system, although the idea of a Wii has been floated on occasion. We'll see. But for now it is enough to know that going to my brother's means excitement and entertainment for the whole family.

On past visits, we have discovered the fun of Guitar Hero. This trip we discovered the joy and hilarity of Karaoke Revolution. And we very nearly got all of the family members involved in the fun. Actually, we did get all of the family members involved, we just didn't get all of the family members to sing. But all were partakers of the fun.

For those of you who know me, I want you to try to picture this: me boldly singing I Will Survive - that 70's disco paean of female resiliency and empowerment. Yes I did. In front of PEOPLE. The mental image is good for a chuckle, is it not? If not, try this one: Titus and I performing a poorly coordinated duet of You're the One that I Want (ooh ooh ooh, honey). Can you see it? In our defense, we didn't get to rehearse, so it is understandable that we got our lines mixed up. A LOT. But with a little practice and some black leather pants we could have rocked it!

I loved watching Emma, the self-proclaimed shy girl, microphone in hand, belting out the tunes. Did she know the songs? No. Did she care? Absolutely not! Tune? I don't need to know the tune of a song to sing it! Music doesn't scare me! She wiped the floor with me with her rendition of I Will Always Love You. My version - cringeworthy. Slightly disturbing was walking into the room and hearing my sweet little 8-year-old girl singing Papa Don't Preach. We quickly removed that particular gem (thank you, Madonna) from her approved playlist.

And then there is the man who has never met an audience he couldn't entertain. Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you, our host and headliner, my brother. First of all, you should know, the man cannot sing. Absolutely CANNOT. You might be inclined to be embarrassed for him, if he cared. He doesn't. I find it amusing that as a child he was in a choir. With him, much as it was with Garth Brooks before him, it's not about the singing ability, it's about the show. And we surely enjoyed the show. He worked the room, talked to the crowd, and embellished the lyrics here and there (for example, when singing The Joker, at the line, "I'm a smoker" he added, "not really," which tickled the children every time.)

Sure, it was a little awkward when he was singing Against All Odds, moving about the room, personally serenading each one of us in turn. My mom and I put up with it and we couldn't contain our laughter. My husband had to draw the line. Because your brother-in-law singing "You're the only one who really knew me at all" to you just crosses a little too far over the inappropriate threshold. But you've gotta love the guy's dedication to his craft.

Quite honestly, nobody in my immediate family can sing. Couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, so they say. My mother, secure and unapologetic about her lack of vocal talent, would not be persuaded to take the mic. But happily, we did manage to get my dad in on the action. The song? I Got You Babe, vintage Sonny and Cher. Awesome. If you met my dad casually, you would never guess, but the man is an entertainer. I've always known it. Watching him take my mother's hand (not inappropriate), singing, "Babe. I got you babe," was so perfectly hysterical!

I see a Wii Dance Dance Revolution in our future.

Surprise!

This past weekend we traveled to Houston for another of my son's gymnastics meets. We were excited that my parents made the long trip from Florida to see their grandson compete, and that my brother rearranged his work schedule so that he and his wife could also attend. It was a whirlwind mini family reunion.

We arrived Saturday morning and spent the day visiting and playing karaoke on the PlayStation (more on this later). My sister-in-law was baking a cake, which I assumed was for a belated birthday celebration for my son. That night we went out for dinner and when we returned to the house, I hopped on the computer to check Facebook my e-mail. Which is when people started acting strangely, whispering furtively, closing doors, giggling faintly, scattering like rats. I didn't pay this behavior much notice, subconsciously assuming they were getting ready to surprise the boy. Eventually my brother appeared with that feigned-innocence-but-I-really-have-something-up-my-sleeve grin of his, and beckoned me to come into the other room. I still had my coat on.

When I turned the corner I saw my family - my mother, my brother, my sister-in-law (who I really just want to call my sister), my son, my daughter, and my husband - all with big, joyous we-sure-pulled-one-over-on-you smiles on their beautiful faces. And I saw the lovely cake with the candles that tipped me off that this celebration was indeed not for my 11-year-old son, but for his 40-year-old* mother. Balloons cascaded from the landing above (that's where my dad was, in case you were wondering.) They sang 'Happy Birthday' (gloriously off-key as tradition dictates it must be sung.) I still had my coat on.

*I'm not actually 40 yet. I still have 8 more days left at 39. It's important to clarify.


I'm not a party person, I don't like crowds, and I embarrass easily. So I don't generally dream of a surprise birthday bash. But present in the room that night were the people that I love most dearly in all of the world. And I knew in that moment that they love me most dearly in return. It was the perfect surprise. So, precious family: Thank you. And I love you, too.

Not a book review

I just finished reading a book that, yet again, was brought home for my children, and, yet again, became mine. I intended to sit down and write a little review of this book. Because I liked it. But as I was composing my little review in my head, I came to realize that all I really wanted to do was share a quote from the book. Just one. Because her words are better than mine. So, here it is. It's a little melancholy, but then again, recently, so am I.

Looking out over the city, Peter decided that it was a terrible and complicated thing to hope, and that it might be easier, instead, to despair.

The Magician's Elephant
by Kate DiCamillo

This is the reason that I read. Because I, myself, am so limited in my own ability to express, or even to understand, the hidden inner workings of my own fragile heart. This is why I read. Because it consoles the heart to discover that another has articulated for me the very thought, emotion, desire, that my own utterance is too weak to convey. This is the reason that I read. Because my soul is moved by the quiet power of language. Because I admire and appreciate those with both the ability and the desire to construct it into a thing of beauty and of meaning and of weight.

They are just words. It is just a story. But in the hands of the gifted few, the words become potent, full of impact and of recognition and of healing.

This is why I read. What about you?

And I don't even like peanut butter

I am going to show you a picture. This picture serves the purpose of proving that looks can be deceiving and that you can't judge a book by its cover and whatever other similar trite adage you can come up with. This cupcake is not a beautiful cupcake. It's a little misshapen. The frosting is not smooth and creamy. You can't tell (thanks to the covering of the not smooth and not creamy frosting), but the cupcakes are also sunken in the middles. When I pulled the first batch out of the oven, I was bummed because they looked so sad and pathetic.

Not pretty, is it?

However... My son said they were phenomenal. His exact word. I agree with him. So I will share my recipe with you, taken from The All New Fannie Farmer Boston Cooking School Cookbook, Tenth Edition (published in 1970, the year of my birth).

Peanut Butter Cupcakes

At their best when freshly baked

Put paper baking cups in muffin tins (16 or more, according to size). Set the oven at 375 degrees. Cream together until smooth

1/4 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup butter

Beat in

3/4 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp vanilla

Sift together

1 cup pastry flour or 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/4 tsp baking powder

Add in small amounts, alternating with

3/8 cup milk

Fill the paper cups half full. Bake about 20 minutes.

I doubled the recipe and ended up with 32 cupcakes, just enough for my son's 5th grade class and a few left over for me the family. I frosted them with chocolate butter frosting (homemade, of course - if canned frosting looked like mine, Duncan Hines would go out of business). I'd give you that recipe, except I kind of cannibalized two separate recipes and to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly sure what I did. It may not be aesthetically pleasing, but it sure tastes good!

Nighty-night, sleep tight

So the other day, my daughter tells me she has a library book from school that she wants me to read to her. We didn't have time that night. The next night she tells me she has to return the book the next day, and she really wants me to read it to her. I tell her to get ready for bedtime and then we snuggle up together in her bed and I open the book.

We begin to read. The story opens with a poor little girl, out walking in the snow on a cold night. She has lost her slippers (one having been snatched up by a young boy) and she is barefoot in the cold. Sounds a little serious, but on we read.

Continuing. The girl finds a corner between two buildings to curl up in; she is freezing cold. She is afraid to go home because her father will beat her for not selling any matches. Yes, BEAT her.

I'm a little disturbed now, but my daughter says she has read this book before, so I trudge forward.

The girl has her matches (which she did not sell) and begins to light the matches to warm her hands. In the light of the matches she sees beautiful visions of Christmas trees and warm rooms and wonderful feasts. I think to myself, it sounds like this child is hallucinating.

With the next match the girl sees a vision of her loving grandmother (who is dead) and proceeds to light the remaining matches so as not to lose the vision. A little more disturbed, yet I continue to turn the pages.

And we come to the delightful finale about how passers-by the next morning find the little girl's frozen body with a handful of used matches in her cold, dead hand. (No, the actual text did not say, "cold, dead hand," but it may as well have.)

I looked at my daughter incredulously, my voice slightly choking, at the conclusion of this story, "Emma, why would you ask me to read this story right before bedtime?" She only offered a meek shrug while gazing at me with her own misty eyes. "Your teacher read this to you?" I ask, trying to imagine a room full of 2nd graders gathering for story time only to be slapped in the face with death. The answer, "Yes, but we actually read it in 1st grade." Of course you did.

I consider myself fairly well-read, but I have to admit I had never heard of The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen before this night. I think it's one of those classic tales. I'm sure there's a reason. Don't get me wrong - I am generally not against my children reading stories concerning death and other such serious topics. But a little emotional preparation would have been nice. For me, anyway.

Eva, oh Eva

I fell in love this week.

It was unexpected. It was magical. It was puppy love. Literally.

I mean, who can blame me? Just look at that face!

(This is Eva, who came to visit us this week all the way from New Mexico with my husband's sister and brother-in-law. I already miss her.)

This cat person is slowly being converted.

What a treat to be greeted at the door after a long (okay, not so long) day at work, by an energetic, bouncy little creature who is so happy to see me she is beside herself with joy! Instead of being greeted (if I am greeted at all) by a whining cat whose only reason for dragging his white self off of the black slacks I left on my bed is to see if I would put some meat paste in his bowl.

How yummy to have the little big-eared love bug snuggle up next to me and fall fast asleep. You think that cat snuggles up to anyone? Truly, he is defective.

How convenient that any tiny morsel of food dropped on the floor is instantly sucked up by the little four-legged bissel. The cat? Useless. In fact, he won't even eat his OWN food that HE drops on the floor.

So what is keeping me from giving in to this irrational love feeling? What's stopping me from "accidentally" letting the indoor-only cat outside on a cold night?

It's the licking. So much licking. Can somebody please explain the incessant licking? I don't want my face licked. I don't want my hands licked. I don't want my toes licked. Really, I don't. Do they make a dog who doesn't have this insatiable need to put its tongue on everything? I almost wouldn't mind receiving her little doggy kisses if I hadn't just watched her lick the cat food off of the floor. Ugh. The licking is just too much.

That cat (who at this very moment happens to be curled up next to me, purring) has no idea how lucky he is.