Help My Face, Please

I had a facial yesterday. Not just any facial, either, but a luxurious, lasts-and-hour, requires multiple lotions, potions, scrubs, steams, and periodic hot towels applied to the above-the-shoulders region facial. A could never confess how much it cost, thank goodness I had a gift certificate, still shudder to think of the price facial. One that started with tall glasses of chilled water that was faintly tinted with watermelon flavor and that ended with a hand and lower arm massage (love love LOVE that my face goes all the way down to my fingernails, by the way). One that left me, apparently, wholly incapable of writing or thinking in complete sentences.

Have you ever had a facial like this?

It's heavenly. My skin feels so supple and smooth that I swear a picture of me right now would look just like a newborn baby's bottom. In a good way. Obviously.

I went for the facial at a spa that is so upscale that I've never breached the front door before yesterday. The lovely thing about this place is that I didn't feel all condescended to, even though I will not be able to schedule the next, more involved, chemical peel facial my lovely consultant (we'll call her Sarah) recommended for me until the kids are in middle school because it will take me that long to save up for it. (For clarification, that's approximately six years and twelve weeks longer than Sarah recommended I wait between facials.)

Why did I do this ridiculous indulgent thing? Well, partly because I turned [redacted] old a few days ago, and partly because I have a friend who was shocked to learn that I do not wear eye cream, and partly because I am noticing some fine lines appearing around my eyes. ("Do you wear bangs?" asked Sarah, which was her subtle way of saying, "Actually, the horizontal lines on your forehead are much more prominent than those little tiny things you say you're worried about around your eyes.")

So, during the facial, I spent a lot of time asking questions about what my skin-care regimen should be. (For a start, I should apparently have one.) I fessed up that I have used Oil of Olay as my only moisturizer since I was about fourteen. My concession to becoming a grown-up was to shift to buying the one with the built-in SPF a few years ago. Though I do have a facial scrub in my shower, I perhaps exaggerated a little when I told Sarah I exfoliate once every other week. I did tell the truth about using my body wash on my face in the shower. She was appropriately horrified ... but in a very kind, gentle, don't break the mood of bergamot and eucalyptus and piano music kind of way, which I appreciated, given what I was paying for that mood.

Sarah gently indicated that while Oil of Olay is a good choice when you're young because it is "inexpensive" (funny, I'd always thought of it as my little indulgence -- $8 for that small bottle?!), it might be time to try something more grown up. Something with deeper cleansing properties, and firming potential. Something that would cleanse, and deeply moisturize, and plump, and firm, and tone, and I don't know what else, but it did all sound really wonderful.

Since I am now a woman of a certain age (read: I finally no longer get carded), I also think perhaps I should start wearing makeup. Don't have a heart-attack -- I wore my fair share of blue eyeshadow in high school. I mean start wearing it again on a regular basis. I bought some multi-use creamy rouge (cheeks and lips!) from Stila a year ago, and they gave me a free sampler of a powder foundation. I LOVE that stuff. And yet, the sample-size compact is still more than half full, which tells you roughly how often I wear makeup.

But if I start wearing makeup, then I also have to start washing my face properly. And if I don't like these little lines, then I should probably also "nourish" it properly. And have you noticed that as soon as you move from moisturize to nourish, the price of the bottles jumps from $8 to $28? Or $54? And, really, although I'm not loving these forehead lines, it's a little bit much to expect me to drop $125 on skincare products when I normally spend approximately $12 every six months.

So here's my question for you: what are your favorite, your very very favorite, products for your face that won't leave my children without a college-fund contribution this month? I'm willing to admit that $2 per month is perhaps too small a budget. But, realistically, I am not willing to go all crazy indulgent either. So the prime concern is figuring out where to splurge and where to buy brands available at Target. I have normal skin that needs, according to Sarah, a moderate cleanser, a deep exfoliater, a serum to help lock in the other products, and a "grown-up moisturizer" (her words). Can you suggest any wonderful moisturizers, or serums, or washes, or exfoliating scrubs that are perfect for the not-getting-carded-but-nowhere-near-facelift set?

Or do you have any other ideas for being a little less fourteen-years-old in how I take care of my face?

Alternately, I'd also welcome advice about where I can apply for a grant to cover the cost of the fabulous Sonya Dakar skin care line that this very chic salon recommends.

Real Poetry for Kids. Really.

I've mentioned before that I like the idea of reading poetry to my kids. But it's one of those ideas that I like very much, but that in practice crosses my mind more than the poetry crosses my lips.

Of course, I read them poetry in the form of Sandra Boynton books (we, too, love our "Belly B's") and Mother Goose, but the plan to expose them to "adult" poetry hasn't been in full force much of late.

But now, quite suddenly, I have an in. Son has a favorite "pome" (his pronunciation). He has worked hard to memorize it (!), and he likes to recite it for me. I, of course, cannot get enough of his little voice, and his still-idiosyncratic pronunciation of some letters, reciting a "pome" that he will explain in a deliberate manner was written by "Will-yum Car-yos Willy-ums."

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

When Son recites this, he puts a lot of emphasis on the probably, pronouncing it in a long drawn-out way that add some considerable irony to the poem. And he grins at the end every time he remembers that the plums "were delicious" -- because he often skips straight to "so sweet and so cold."

When I asked him why he liked this poem so much, he said, "because it's just so funny! He ate her plums!" And he laughed. Then, out of the silence a minute later he said, "I bet his mama was pret-ty mad." Which, of course, I found funny. I have never, in all my history of reading scholarly comments on this poem, read one that suggested this was a note from a son to a mother whose plums he had pilfered.

That comment of his, though, provided a revelation. Getting kids to love poetry is all about giving them an in. If it's a poem that could be from a son to a Mama, then Son gets it. I suspect the reverse would also make perfect sense to him. He just needs some context. Although I have long known this to be the case for my students, for inexplicable reasons, it just never clicked with me in terms of approaching poetry with a preschooler. Suddenly, worlds of possibility are opening for me, and I can see myself reading him all kinds of things that we will talk about and imagine pictures for.

He is even talking about wanting to write his own poem -- after he finishes writing down "This is Just to Say." And since he can only get about 20 letters per page before space runs out, I'm thinking the writing of that one may take a while. But I say, let it take as long as it needs...because if I have a son who loves language enough to play with probably and imagine relationships to go along with poems he hears, I'm willing to play with letters and words on paper as long as is necessary.

And just in case you're wondering how he memorized this little gem -- and worrying that, perhaps, I am one of those insane over-achiever mothers who pushes absurd skills on four-year-olds, full disclosure requires me to credit HBO with this newfound love of Son's. The series Classical Baby has branched out from its wordless offerings of classical music, jazz, and quiet animations of famous artwork to produce a poetry show. It is a high-quality (animated, set to music) show that features the likes of Langston Hughes reading his own poetry, and Gwyneth Paltrow delivering an Elizabeth Barret Browning sonnet complete with a perfectly pitched lesson on how to understand her somewhat archaic language. Son fell in love with the Williams poem from this show, and asked me to help him "remember the words," so I looked it up in a book and we worked on memorizing it together. Here's the key, though: he asked me. So now it's up to me to seize this opportunity and run with it.

How do I love thee? my poetry-memorizing Son? Ah, just let me count the ways...

Happy 9th Annual 29th Birthday, MommyTime!

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear MommyTime,
Happy Birthday to you!

So after your crazy Bossy partyfest, I’m not sure if you’re up for another martini, but I send you a virtual chocolate one for your birthday, just in case. I wish I was there to drink it with you, and eat too much cake, and giggle over presents, but know that I’m thinking of you, and sending you lots of big hugs and sloppy birthday kisses. Oh, and your present—which is from MIQuilter and me, and will be late, because I didn’t manage to get to the post office on Friday. But it’s fabulous, and you’ll love it!
We love you!
MultiplesMommy and her gang

It Runs In the Family

The other night at the Bossy extravaganza, popcorn was in high demand. (You don't remember popcorn being mentioned? It came after the appetizers, dinner, and dessert, but before the White Castle. What? We were hungry from all that laughing.) Here is how most people eat popcorn:












Here is how people in my family eat popcorn:

What can I say? We know what we like. AND, we're not afraid to enjoy it to the fullest. Another thing that we like, all of us, from grandparents on down through the generations, is chocolate. And it must be said that while MIQ was devoted to getting the last of the popcorn out of the bowl, she in all fairness cannot be accused of actually licking the bowl. Please. She has some decorum.

Fortunately, her nephew is still in the age bracket where licking bowls is allowable. And, frankly, when the bowl is big enough to hold your head, you can see why it's appealing.

While the picture of a head in a bowl is funny, we dignified grown-ups obviously love to see the net result, which is so endearing in its enthusiasm. So here is Son, giving a whole new meaning to the term "brown nose." A reasonable definition of that term at our house is "Mama is making cake, and I'm helping."

Lest I be accused of unfairness, I am quite willing to admit that this is a matter of Like Mother, Like Son:

MommyTime circa 1974 (dig the pants!)

Wouldn't it be nice if every day were a lick-the-batter-bowl day?

What Happens When Bloggers Don't Have Their Computers

What happens when Bossy rolls through town, and local bloggers can't decide in what public bar to meet up, so they all come to your house instead? Well, first comes anticipation:


Then comes inebriation:

Then comes celebration:

And finally, inundation:


Did you know that if you send several fabulous (and fabulously tipsy) women out to get White Castle burgers at 1:45am, in the car of another wonderful (not tipsy) woman whom they've never met before that evening but whose taste in music they are quite happy to endorse in full-volume singing voices, you will end up with a minimum of several dozen burgers, ziggity fries, and the this-is-just-wrong concoction that is the White Castle Chicken Ring? And did you further know that you will eat most of them? Because...don't they look luscious, sitting there all pert and melty in their little paper sleeves?


And did you further further know that White Castle burger sleeves contain factoids on the bottom of each one? Me either. But if you eat enough of them, you can learn useful things: "To make one lb. of cheese, a dairy cow must first eat three lbs. of food." And absurd things, such as that it is possible to "Warm your buns in White Castle underwear."

But, probably, you will only learn these excellent factoids the next morning because you will be too busy stuffing your face with the little slivers of burger heaven at 2am to read anything.

Between anticipation and burger heaven, here's what else might happen, if you're lucky:

You'll eat approximately 1.5 pounds of cream cheese cleverly disguised as Salmon Fabulosity; you (assuming there are eight of you) will drink six bottles of wine and the better part of a bottle of Skyy vodka, along with doing shooters of icy-cold blueberry vodka that end with sucking on a heavily sugared wedge of lemon (don't knock it till you've tried it); you will have fantastic conversations about fears of urban areas (reasonable and unreasonable), about the state of the blogging world, about journalism, quilting, traveling to Africa, photography, mothering, dogs, backyards, and whether or not someone would just open another bottle of wine already.

You will realize around 9pm that no one has eaten a real dinner yet, and that, very sadly, the stuffed shells haven't arrived, so you'll make chicken-and-asparagus pasta. Because everyone knows you don't get dessert until you've eaten a healthy dinner...and there are chocolate covered strawberries and homemade tiramisu just begging to be sampled.

And you'll keep trying to get everyone to sit on the comfy chairs in the living room and to take advantage of the lovely lace tablecloth in the dining room. But they'll all stand around in the kitchen anyway.

And then suddenly it will be 1am, and no one will know where the time went because the conversations were so good, and the laughter so hearty, and the popcorn snack so salty, crunchy, and perfect. (Thanks, Act II!) And a few people who have to drive very far will leave, and a few more who are certainly in no shape to drive will not leave.

And then someone will want White Castle.

And it will strike you, at some point in the middle of the hilarity and the overeating, that life is GOOD. So very good, when the world is full of smart, interesting, beautiful, strong women--and handful of whom are in your kitchen. And you will want to thank Bossy from the depths of your heart for dreaming up this crazy road trip and then making it a reality. Because although blogging is about making connections--connections between people and people and between ideas and people--those connections are mediated through the computer. And this makes it doubly special when the computer gets removed from the equation even for one night, and you get to hug these women, and laugh with them, and talk to them, and hear their real actual voices.

But you will, of course, forget to thank Bossy for this because you are too busy laughing at your space-age wine opener with Nancy, or draining pasta behind Marie's back, or admiring Tiff's martini skills, or crunching on Julianne's luscious salad, or yukking it up with your dear neighbor and your crazy sister.

So: Thank YOU, Bossy. Not just for stopping, staying, talking, but for being the catalyst who brought together such wonderful women for a great evening.

Dear Bossy

Thank you thank you THANK YOU for picking our house for a stop on your road trip. I wish you would come more often. The perks are great.

I don't know how you did it, but you managed to make MommyTime take me for a walk yesterday. She keeps making me go for these awful runs when all I want to do is move slowly and smell mailboxes and rocks to see who was there before me. Even when I drive her crazy with slowness, and I try to sniff every other blade of grass along our way, she still thinks running is a good idea. Thanks for talking some sense into her.

And that Salmon thing she makes for special occasions? If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have gotten to lick the beaters. You are my new favorite human. Please come back anytime.

Your adoring canine friend,

The Dog.


*** Human edit *** Photos and details of the human portion of Bossy's fabulous visit coming soon -- once I finish washing wine glasses and martini glasses and picking up White Castle burger wrappers from my living room floor. Oh, yes, I throw a classy shin-dig for visiting dignitaries.

Ask Alice the Accountant

For a long while now, I've been compiling a list of nutty search terms that land people on this blog. I just haven't been sure what to do with them. Then suddenly, yesterday, it hit me. I am going to run a sporadic "Ask So-and-So" feature so that I can help out all these poor souls who are desperate to know something about the hibernation patterns of kangaroos or the best ways to keep one's thighs from touching each other. And the "So-and-So" will change every time I get organized enough to put up one of these posts. Sometimes she'll be a doctor, others a vet, or a naughty girl-for-hire, or an etiquette expert, or a fashion maven, or a plain old martini-slugging lush. Or whoever it is whose expertise multiple people seem hoping to find when they land here. And she'll answer all these poor readers' questions -- the ones that sent them here and left them disastrously unfulfilled. So that if anyone else comes along, wondering

What a the grammatical problems that accountant encounter.

he or she will not have to leave disappointed. Never fear, dear reader, Alice the Accountant can help you out!

At least one of the grammatical problems that plague accountants is the inability to distinguish between common punctuation marks such as periods and question marks. Those marks are pesky and confusing, and we accountants generally only have use for a period (or decimal) in our daily lives. But I understand that the other marks are good too, and that there are rules for using them. Please note: semi-colons are very tricky and should only be attempted by professionals. But we accountants can certainly master question marks and exclamation points, if for no other reason than to jazz up our writing a bit. Obviously, the typo of a for are is something that could happen to anyone, not just accountants--but this suggests that just as you double-check your math, it can also be productive to double-check your typing. In your query, you could usefully choose to make accountant plural, or add the 's' necessary to make the verb agree with a singular accountant. Your choice.

So there you have it: proper punctuation, proofreading, and subject-verb agreement are skills accountants could stand to refresh. It is a little ironic that the last is a matter of numbers. But irony is even harder to master than punctuation. So let's start with this as the first of several accountant encounters. (Which, by the way, would make an excellent title for a poem, were I poetically inclined: "Accountant Encounter" by Alice. But I'm a numbers girl myself...)

On to the next query, a plea for: Fun with numbers phrases. Ah, yes... numbers are fun. And it's worth having some phrases that say so. This gets us to a grammar problem, however, since phrases are not sentences, and if I only give you incomplete sentences (phrases), it might not be clear how much fun math is. But I'll do my best. Here are three, for a start: Numbers Fun! or Fun Numbers! or Fun with Numbers! (again, notice the appropriate use of alternative punctuation marks). With this head start, I'll bet you can come up with even more on your own.

And finally:

math games using uncooked macaroni

Although I no longer personally use uncooked macaroni to calculate anything on tax returns or for bookkeeping, I know that it has its popularity as a medium for math games. I don't know any math games myself that don't involve calculating integers or cooking the books, neither of which can really be done with "uncooked macaroni," but I think if you try making piles of the dry noodles, you can then count them and see whose pile is the biggest. That might be fun. Or you can use them as chips when playing Math Poker (like regular Poker, except you count cards). Or you can use them in place of actual numbers to teach basic arithmetic processes. Just be sure your division problems are carefully planned to work out evenly, since I don't think it's very simple to work on fractions using small, hard, dry noodles.

I hope I have been helpful. Stay tuned for other useful responses to Google queries in coming weeks. If you are feeling anxious about your shabby knees, come here for more information. If you want a list of hair-brained homophones, you're in the right place. There is apparently nothing this blog does not know. You'll be so glad you asked.

How to Restrain a Hurricane

I apologize for the lack of anything remotely Thinky to post today.

In compensation for being utterly unable to rub enough brain cells together to think of anything intelligent -- or, really, of anything at all beyond brownies and an 8pm bedtime (both for me) -- I tried last night to think of a catchy alternative name to put over my usual brain logo. But something like "Brain Mush Thursday" or "Tired Brain Thursday" just didn't have that clever ring I was looking for.

And "The Day After Kids-Kicked-My-Ass Wednesday" really was too long. So I gave up on the logo.

I considered posting Before and After photos of my house, which I have been systematically cleaning in preparation for all the weekend festivities. There was something appealing in the perversity of posting true tidiness as Before, with After represented by the chaotic destruction of which only two cyclones bent on challenging their mother's sanity and "mine!"-ing each other to death are capable. But I didn't have the energy to take photos of the messes before making feeble attempts to clean. Chasing my children with a broom and dustpan is like chasing an actual hurricane with a broom and dustpan and assuming those tools will be sufficient to clean up the devastation left in the wake. And I spent so much time alternating between issuing time outs and nursing boo boos incurred while standing on chairs and draping selves over tippy bar stools as if our kitchen had suddenly morphed into McDonald's Playland (of course you land on your head on a tile floor when you treat a kitchen stool as a swing that you are supposed to ride on your belly) that I really don't have the energy to recall what my house looked like when it was clean. All the way back about 24 hours ago.

I'm sure you have those days. (And if you don't, please don't tell me.) The ones where, although you of course deep down still love your children, you just don't like them very much?

That was my Wednesday. They threw food at each other at lunch. They refused blatantly to obey simple instructions, emptied the contents of all of my purses, diaper bags, book bags, shopping bags, and any other container within reach all over the floor, knocked over The Pile, got in each other's way on purpose, snatched each other's toys, argued and fought, poked and prodded. As the sun finally came out after naptime, I had a cheerful (desperate) thought. But they were so perverse that they even became self-defeating.

ME: "Who wants to go for a bike hike?"
THEM: "Me me me me me!"
ME: "Okay, everybody put your shoes on."
THEM: "NO."
ME: head explodes quietly

I was getting photos ready to send to the grandparents, and I did seriously wonder for a moment whether I might be able to figure out a way to send the kids instead of their photos. But I gave that up as impractical.

Which is all to say that I have nothing remotely intelligent to ponder today. This is particularly the case as I tend to write my posts the night before, which means as I am currently writing, it is 9pm at the end of what was hands-down the LONGEST Kids-Kicked-My-Ass Wednesday of my life.

So, please forgive the lack of thinky. But my question for the day is: Do you have any suggestions for how to restrain a hurricane?

Seven Random Things

Fawn at Fawnahareo's Place tagged me for this meme in which I am supposed to reveal seven "random or weird" things about myself.

And I'm willing to be pretty random. But I also like to monkey with the rules on occasion. So, here are seven things. All of them are random. Six of them are true.

One. I adore riding horses. I'm surprisingly competent at it given how few times I've actually ridden. I can stay on a cantering horse, and have even managed to keep a horse or two from throwing me. I have fantasies about riding horses for miles along beaches with the wind in my hair. I was not allowed, no matter how much I begged and strategized, to have my very own horse living in our suburban backyard when I was nine. Though I still feel occasional pangs of longing about this, in this regard Mom was wiser than she knew. Turns out I'm also violently allergic to horses.

Two. I love antique jewelry. My engagement ring dates to around 1910, and if I had all the money in the world, I wouldn't go shopping at Tiffany's. I'd choose this fantastic little estate jewelry shop I found once in Boston right near the Public Gardens on a really swanky street. And I'd buy everything they had that was Edwardian, white gold, and filled with gorgeous garnets or sapphires.

Three. I get unreasonably annoyed by the sight of "Tips" cans on the counters of coffee houses where I'm merely placing an order with a cashier who will shout my desired beverage down a chain of three people whose responsibility it is, respectively, to mark the cup, make the drink, and hand me my cup. Tips are for service -- for people who are making that horrifying minimum wage that's half of the regular minimum wage because they are supposedly earning tips. If you work in a coffee shop, your job is to ring up and pour (or steam) coffees. There's no extra service involved. And you make at least normal minimum wage. So I'm not sure why you need a tip to ring up my drink at the right price. Okay, I'll stop now. See? I said I was unreasonable.

Four. I interviewed Jimmy Carter once on television. I was in high school, on a panel of three students, and the program was to be broadcast on public television. I don't recall what I asked, and although I have a video tape of the event, I've never watched it. I have a still photo (autographed) that shows me with astonishingly fluffy curly hair and thick giant curly bangs. Seeing that photo is enough; I don't think I could bear watching that girl speak and move.

Five. When I eat ice cream in a bowl, I stab it and stir it with my spoon a lot until it gets softer and a bit on the gooey side, with little melty dribbles of chocolate soup around the edges. Perfection.

Six. Back in the day, I was a model for classes at an art school. The kind of art school where they like to draw pictures of humans without clothes. And the kind of art school where they kindly provide heat lamps for the models because no one really wants to spend lots of time molding goose bumps in clay or painting bluish lips on otherwise fabulous first-year-of-art-school paintings. You'd think this would be embarrassing--but at the time it was completely fine. While I never made eye contact with any of the clothed artistes during class, we had lots of fun yukking it up over bad coffee during the breaks. I'd wander around the school and the gardens in my robe. A substantial one, no doubt. But, really? Who in their right mind doesn't get dressed for the one-hour lunch break but instead chooses to eat sandwiches out of a brown paper bag while laughing with friends out in the sun in nothing but a robe? An artists' model, that's who. Also, in case you're wondering, the hourly pay for this is excellent. And college is expensive.

Seven. I would never let my Daughter be an artists' model.

So, there is me in Seven Things. Well, in six true things and one good story. I'll never tell which one is the odd one out -- no matter how hard you beg. But it would be fun to hear you try. :)

***** Here are the rules and my tags. *****

This is the “7 Things” meme, and here are the rules:

1. Link your tagger. Post the rules.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself (random or weird)
3. Tag 7 friends
4. Leave a comment letting them know they have been tagged.

Okay, well, I'm breaking the rules again. I'm not tagging seven. I'm afraid I might scare too many people away. But I will tag Latte Mommy, who has just ventured back into the pool after a hiatus occasioned by moving -- and who I think needs a bit of a push back into the deep end. I'm also tagging Beth at So the Fish Said, Nicole at SAHM Ramblings, and Betsy Bird at Emptying Our Nest -- all of whom are relatively new to me, and all of whom I look forward to getting to know better.

This Week at My House

It's exam week, which means lot of end-of-semester grading for me. Every. single. day. Here's what else I've got going on:

Today: graduate student conference I'm responsible for planning (my idea, my work...). This means last night I made two giant pans of brownies and one Fabulous Salmon Spread (more on that in a moment) -- and today I'm schlepping all of this to work along with hummus, carrots, chips, salsa, crusty bread, umpteen serving dishes, plates, napkins, cups, 6 liters of soda, and a partridge in a pear tree. Not to mention programs, door signs, and other boring but organizationally important things. I won't be home from work till after 10pm.

***Edited to add: I just got a $25 parking ticket for parking for five minutes with my flashing lights on to unload all of the above from my car and into my building at work. Because OF COURSE there is no assigned parking or faculty parking, so we have to troll all over the damn campus looking for a spot -- of which there are approximately 1/2 the necessary number. And the Parking Enforcement Robot REFUSED to void the ticket because I had "abused" (her word) the super-special paid-for parking space right in front of the building by parking in it. She told me what I should have done was park elsewhere on campus, then call parking enforcement to let them know I was planning to park illegally in front of my building to unload things. Then I would have a 15 minute window to unload. This would NOT guarantee me no ticket, but it would in theory mean that when I did get a ticket, they would then be able to void it. Of course, we have never been informed that this is the policy. That would be too easy. And un-Robotic. If I weren't so steaming mad, I might feel kind of dirty. Who knew you could abuse a parking space by parking in it??!?***

Wednesday: at home with the kids all day. [clean and vacuum upstairs, defeat The Pile, and conquer the laundry monster; fortunately, the kids adore changing sheets, so they'll be a big help]

Thursday: exam session in my last class. Must show up with one giant pan of brownies. [dust downstairs of house and clean bathrooms before I go to work]

Friday: BOSSY arrives! Yes, it's true. My house is a stop on Bossy's amazing road trip. Not only will she sleep in my guest room, the bloggers' bash for the evening will be taking place in my living room. Hence, today, I have to finish picking up random detritus and vacuum/mop the downstairs of my house. And if you think that could be done earlier in the week, you don't have a toddler and a preschooler capable of spilling, between them, 3.5 glasses of expensive organic milk in a single meal as they did on Monday night. Also, I have to make another Fabulous Salmon Spread. And grade nine research papers. THEN, party with Bossy!

Saturday morning: Farm Waffles. The kids love them. I hope Bossy's sense of humor extends to recalling what mealtime with preschoolers is like. If so, I'm sure she'll love eating waffles shaped like cows, barns, pigs, and roosters too.

Saturday afternoon: birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese (fortunately, we are only guests for this one, and the present is all set to go)

Saturday evening: relaxing home pedicure night with a few friends. Although I'd originally intended to serve Fabulous Salmon Spread and a giant pan of brownies, I'm thinking I might be sick of these. So I plan on figuring out something else. Say hunks of cheese, perhaps? Or anything, really, that doesn't involve dirtying another dish to create.

Sunday: do you suppose Husband will let me sleep till noon, eat lunch, and then have an afternoon nap while Daughter sleeps? Yeah, me either.

And if you are diligent enough to have read through my coming week without pounding your head on your keyboard in exhaustion, here is your reward: the recipe for Fabulous Salmon Spread. Trust me, if you are a great cook, this will delight you with its impressiveness-to-easiness ratio. And if you hardly cook at all, this can become your signature Wow! dish. You will probably want to start serving it at various parties and functions at least three times a week. Fair warning.

Fabulous Salmon Spread
(recipe comes from the Complete Book of Hors d'oeuvre, which is out of print)

1 T. butter to grease pan
4 oz. sesame crackers
one stick (1/2 cup) of butter, less whatever you used to grease pan, melted
2.5 pounds cream cheese, at room temperature
4 eggs
1/2 pound smoked salmon (not lox but the smoked fillets that come vacuum sealed)
1/2 cup finely chopped scallions (including some green)
1/4 cup minced fresh dill

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Use approximately 1 T. of butter to thoroughly coat the bottom and sides of a 9" springform pan. Crush crackers and dust some up the sides of the pan. Then mix the rest of the crackers with the melted butter, and press into bottom of the pan.

Using an electric mixer, beat cream cheese and eggs thoroughly until completely mixed and smooth. (It's okay if there are a few tiny bumps here and there.) Crumble salmon (without skin) into the cheese mixture, and add scallions and dill. Beat again until mixture becomes lighter and fluffy. Pour into pan, spreading and smoothing with a spatula.

Bake 5 minutes at 350, then reduce heat to 325 and bake 50 minutes more. If you don't trust your oven, check for doneness: cake should be just set in the middle. If you've opened the oven to check, give it a couple of minutes to heat back up to temperature again, and then turn it off. Do NOT open door. Allow salmon fabulosity to cool completely in oven with door closed. This will take several hours.

If serving the same day, do not refrigerate, as this tastes much better at room temperature. It tastes even better the next day, however, and keeps well for several days, so feel free to make ahead and refrigerate once it's cooled. (Cover tightly with plastic wrap first.) Just bring up to room temp before serving. Serve with lots of crusty bread for spreading.

This makes a large quantity, suitable for a party. On a buffet table with lots of other foods, this quantity would safely cover 30 people. It's quite rich and goes farther than you'd think.

If you have any leftovers (doubtful), they are astonishingly good as the filling in a simple omelette.

This is one of those recipes that seems too simple to be true. Take my advice: don't add salt or pepper. Don't use dilled salmon or peppered salmon. I speak from (disappointed) experience. Just stick to the simplicity, and your guests will think you are seriously gourmand.

Also, if you only make it once a year -- say, for a big holiday party -- people will be begging you to make it and deciding whether to come to your party or the other one they were invited to for that night simply on the basis of whether you're serving Salmon Fabulosity. So serve it. Enjoy!

It's in our genes. Really.

My mother is quite a talented seamstress. She can whip out a wedding dress or fancy curtains with equally good results. She also, however, is infamous for the sheer scope of her projects. MommyTime, MIQuilter and I have teased her many times about putting in the bride's hem as she walks down the aisle because there just wasn't time to do everything.

Last week was a crazy one for me. My fibro myalgia was bad and Minnie 1 was miserable with an ear infection. This would have been enough for an "un-fun" week, but I was also hosting a fancy sit-down dinner party last Saturday night for 20 thru a Jewish social group that I coordinate. Oh, and I was organizing and executing a preschool Passover program for 53 last Tuesday and the first night Passover Seder this Saturday for 13. I was a just a wee bit stressed. So Mom came to town for a week to help bail me out. (see, you knew this was going to come back to Mom somehow)

The first order of business was Moses and Pharoah costumes for the Passover program. I was having the kids act out the story of the twelve plagues. My plan, of course, had involved a square of fabric for the back, one for each side of the front, and a side seam. Voila! Costume in under 30 minutes. Mom thought this was just too, well, simple. Not to mention completely historically inaccurate. The 3-year-olds would clearly not be able to suspend reality and truly appreciate the performance with such amateurish costumes. Husband laughingly said that having Mom do the costumes was not likely to shorten the process. I, feeling very clever, told him that I had limited fabric, which would, of course, limit the project. I neglected to take into account that Mom would travel with her own. Seriously. So instead of my blatantly homemade costumes that would merely indicate who was who, we got this...

WAIT! Is that Charleton Heston and Yul Brenner?!?! Oh. No. That's just Minnie 1 and Minnie 2. In dashing, accurate costumes. Had you fooled, eh?

But of course, hours worth of costume making, amongst cooking, cleaning, child-watching, and program planning, was not enough to keep dear mama occupied. Big Sis told Nana all about her plans for a Princess Make-over Party for her 6th birthday. I found cheap sequined tiaras, and we planned on doing everyone's hair and nails. Nana offered to sweeten the deal by making princess skirts as well. Not just any skirts, mind you, but uniquely designed, individually styled ones. Like this...

Except that she had to make 14 of them. Yep, that's right, FOURTEEN. In her spare time. Which she managed to almost accomplish. Sans a few ribbons and flowers, they were mostly done by the time she got on the plane on Wed. morning to go see MommyTime and MIQuilter. And now you know how we all ended up being such sure-let's-bite-off-more-than-it's-sensible-to-chew overachievers. At least we come by it honestly. But that Mama, she sure is a good egg.

Letter to My Son: On Your Diligence

Dear Son,

Yesterday, you spent over an hour in the front yard with Daddy hitting pitched balls and practicing your catching and throwing. I know you are only using a hollow plastic bat that's bright red and nearly the circumference of your head at the sweet spot. And you know that real baseball bats are somehow different from these. But your sense is that the real ones are more "fragile," and that's why you're not allowed to have one. Although we have explained that one good reason for not getting you a metal bat is your tendency not to look around you in the slightest before you swing, you remain convinced that "fragile" is the real reason. Even when the most resounding swack! of the day was the sound of your bat hitting your little sister on the side of the head as you tried to manage the complexity of tossing up a ball and then hitting it yourself, you still seemed unconvinced that metal was a good reason not to give you a "real" baseball bat. And while it's true that Daughter didn't get seriously hurt, and it's true that the look of tremendous pride (and a little surprise) on your face when you send a ball flying across the yard is priceless, it would be nice if you would check your surroundings briefly before swinging. Just indulge me.

Your throwing and catching are coming along nicely, though, and it has been a delight to watch you and Daddy playing so intently, being so joyful together. You very proudly take a giant step with one foot in order to be able to lean into your throw. I even heard you confidently explaining to Daddy, when he muffed a throw, "that's because you need to put your body into it." To catch, you use your glove, and Daddy still has to toss you gentle underhand balls from a short distance away. But you are learning. And, seriously, your throws are getting very good. Today there were several balls that went twenty feet or more. I was impressed. "That's because I've been practicing really a lot," you told me.

Indeed, you have a tremendous diligence at many tasks. Your focus and attention span have been remarkable since you were an infant: the day you first found your thumb, I watched you. Lying on your back, you bent your left elbow and brought your thumb right into your mouth. You gave a satisfactory suck or two, then pulled it out, straightened your arm, and tried again. Bingo! On the mark. Out again. Another practice. You did this over and over and over again for a solid five minutes until you were quite sure that thumb would connect with mouth every time and that you knew just how those motions should feel. I am positive that this perseverance will stand you in excellent stead for a lifetime.

I am seeing another manifestation of this self-imposed practicing lately. All of a sudden in the last week, you have realized that you need to work on your pronunciation of "th." You still say "den it will be time to go" or "what is dat?" or "I want free cookies, not only two." But when you make those mistakes, you generally pause now and correct them. Were it not for the fact that you were speaking, I would call it a "silent" correction in the sense that you offer no explanation or discussion. You just repeat the word, or sometimes the sentence, with the correct pronunciation. But, more and more, you don't make the mistake at all. I have heard you correctly enunciate "them" and "that" and "there" and so many other words in the last few days. Very deliberately and carefully you speak THese THings, with a little emphasis on those opening letters. I have praised you for this, telling you that I see you have been working on saying that sound. I asked you if your teachers told you to do so. "No," you responded, looking a little confused. "No one telled me it. I just thought of it in my mind." I am so proud that you have figured this out all on your own.

I will admit, though, that I feel a little pang when I hear you speak a beautiful sentence full of nicely-articulated "th." Oh, my heart seems to say with a tug, the baby speech is melting away. He is getting older. When I tucked you in bed last night, and you told me, "You are THe best Mama in de whole wide world," I was warmed by the words and bolstered a little by the baby speech. As proud as I am of you, it is hard, so hard, to see that my first baby has become a really truly little boy.

Would you do me two small favors, then, in this headlong rush to get bigger? Don't grow up too fast. And please, look around you before you swing that bat.

Your ever-loving,
MAMA

If You Were a Martini

The name for this blog came from two unrelated places. The first was an unforgettable conversation I had years ago with a dear friend. I don't recall what her child was doing, but the end of the exhausting tale punctuated by umpteen toddler interruptions was my friend's weary sigh, "and that's why Mommy needs a martini at lunchtime." And sometimes we all feel that way.

The second is that, in fact, I do like martinis -- but not the James Bond kind of martinis. I'm not much of a straight gin/vodka straight up kind of gal. But there are two martinis that were my some of my favorite drinks for years: a French martini and a chocolate martini. The former starts with Chambourd at the bottom of a very very cold glass. Top with lemon vodka that's been shaken with a lot of crushed ice and then strained over the back of a spoon so that it layers beautifully over the cranberry colored liquor. Add a twist of lemon zest and ... ahhhh ... elegant perfection in a glass.

Chocolate martinis may seem self-explanatory -- but if you've read the post with the recipes on it that you can reach from the sidebar, you'll know there are chocolate martinis and then there are Chocolate Martinis. I only adore the latter. I have yet to figure out the perfect recipe for making them. But oh, how I enjoy the quest. These, however, are really only for dessert, as they are rich, decadent things that are too sweet to sip all night long.

Although (or perhaps because) I probably drink about four martinis a year anymore, I had to take the quiz offering to tell me what kind of martini I am. Results? Obviously:

You Are a Chocolate Martini

You're an elegant drunk, who only likes the best bars and the most expensive drinks. A bit of a cheapskate, you're likely to mooch ten dollar drinks off both friends and strangers. You should never: Drink and dash. You're gonna get caught leaving someone with the tab! Your ideal party: A posh celebrity party you crash, with an open bar. Your drinking soulmates: those with a Classic Martini personality Your drinking rivals: those with a Blueberry Martini personality

What Flavor Martini Are You?

I really don't think I'm a drink moocher. I bought my fair share of rounds at the pub when I lived in England. And I've never done a Drink and Dash, or even contemplated it. In fact, that part horrifies me. So does the idea of a blueberry martini, so the quiz seems reasonably accurate in the balance. And, oh yes, I'd crash a celebrity party if I could. As long as McDreamy was there. And I'd be wearing an elegant satin top and drinking martinis (French, till it was time for dessert) all. night. long.

You?

Because a rose by any other name...wouldn't be a rose

My children's real-life nicknames are Moo, Boo and Doph. Don't ask me why. In the way of nicknames, they have simply evolved. Minnie 2, at 2-1/2, has only started referring to herself by her proper name in the last few weeks. Before then, she always called herself Moo Moo.

We've had some beautiful weather the last few days. I think Spring may actually have come to New England. (I whisper this, of course, so as not to disturb Murphy and his bag of tricks.) The first nice day, we played outside all afternoon. Spring sunshine combined with winter-dry cheeks resulted in a hot pink face for Minnie 2 by bedtime. She padded in to see Daddy in her PJ's. He took one look at her face and reached out a hand to feel her forehead in concern.

"Are you sick?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "I not sick. I Moo Moo."

And there you have it.

In My Garden Yesterday (Photo Hunt: Thirteen)

Exploring with my new camera and my macro lens, I decided the only way to meet the challenge of "thirteen" was to offer thirteen visions of what you can see in my garden right now. The garden overall still gives the impression of brownish dormancy. Most of the flowers have not bloomed. But up close, and in detail, here is what you'll find pushing its way up through the mulch, stretching forth towards the sun. Even the plants that are just leaves now have textures and shapes so lovely...and they carry the promise of wonderful bloom.

TULIP

BLEEDING HEART
CROCUS

SEDUM

WEEPING CHERRY BUDS

CROCUS

BELLFLOWER LEAVES

PERIWINKLE

HUECHERA (CORAL BELLS)

GROUND COVER

DAFFODIL

COLUMBINE

HYACINTH

And what I've learned from this exercise is that when I'm feeling a little blue, and wishing spring would burst forth more quickly, it's really worth looking up close once in a while.

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For more Photo Hunters' interpretations of "Thirteen" see TNChick.

Five-Star Mama

Great moms are like great chefs -- superb at substitution. Don't have buttermilk? Toss a little lemon juice into that whole milk and let it sit a few minutes. There's the old baking powder + cream of tartar trick. And scores of others I'm sure. Although in my house it's way easier to find baking soda than cream of tartar, that just tells you I'm not a great chef. But the principle of creative solutions? I've got the mom version down pat.

You know you're a Five-Star Mama when:

* you stir the fruit into the fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt in hiding, so the kids won't know it's not the blended kind which is always full of high fructose corn syrup;

* you use baby wipes to: blow a preschooler's nose at the library, dust the tv screen, remove stinky-sock smell from the toddler's feet on a night when there's no time for a bath, and remove a stubborn stain from the hall carpet all in the SAME day;

* you count Craisins as a vegetable at lunch (for one meal, all that really matters is that their little internal plumbing doesn't get stopped up -- and dried fruit is great for that, right?)

* you slather on Vasaline to protect a diaper rash when you run out of diaper cream;

* you spoon sugar-free applesauce from a giant jar into little single-serving cups to approximate the more expensive packaging;

* you aren't above using Baby Magic Lavendar and Camomile Calming Bath Wash during your own shower when your Oil of Olay Body Scrub runs out (calming is good, right?);

* you make pancake batter in the blender, using whole oats, half a block of tofu, a whole apple, some vanilla yogurt, eggs, and a scant 1/2 cup of whole wheat flour. And the kids LOVE it.

If you do most of these things, you are indeed a Five-Star Mama deserving of a crown or some other accolades.

Either that or, you really really REALLY need to go to the grocery store.

Now, where did I put my keys again?

How Intimidated are You by Doctors?

I consider myself a reasonably articulate person. I know I am pretty good at research. I am well-educated. And yet, I find it almost impossible to confront a doctor about anything having to do with my health.

I don't mean the kind of confrontation that involves yelling, accusations, or hypochondriacal assertions that of course I have Cushings Disease (or fill in whatever inane self-diagnosis derived from cursory reading of the internet). What I mean is that I become completely tongue-tied, unable to stand my ground (or even indicate that I have any ground on which to stand firm) when I'm sitting there. It's like a disease unto itself. Or at least a syndrome that deserves a name. I don't know why this happens, but it's awful. Here are some examples of what I mean:

Obviously the Doctor Knows Better than I Do Syndrome. I had shards of glass embedded in my finger due to an unfortunate incident involving clumsy washing of some hand-blown wine goblets from Mexico. A year or two later, the glass was slowly being encased in a bigger and bigger lump of scar tissue in my finger, making it hard to bend the finger or use it properly. Mexican glass, being leaded, showed up nicely on x-rays. When the hand surgeon put up the x-ray and showed me the piece he was going to remove, I could very clearly see a second piece of glass lodged a bit higher up. "BUT," I thought, "he's a prestigious hand surgeon. Surely he has seen that speck and concluded that it wasn't glass. Obviously he knows what he is doing." So I said nothing. Eighteen months later, I had to have a second surgery to remove the other piece of glass.

Anything that Will Make the Pain Go Away is Good -- So How Could I Be Bold Enough to Suggest an Alternative? Syndrome. I was suffering from a terrible yeast infection in my nursing breasts, subsequent to Daughter's bout of thrush. I itched deep in the tissue, I had searing pains so bad after nursing that sometimes they made me cry. I did lots of research online, thinking that midwives and other lactation experts might have answers for me. I found lots of useful items. I also went to my OB's office. She couldn't see me that day, so I saw one of her partners. I explained the symptoms to him, and I told him that I was pretty sure I had a ductal yeast infection. He said, "yeast infections don't really go down into your milk ducts; they are topical things." I didn't fight him on it, even though I'd spent hours reading about this, most notably on the website of an eminent Canadian doctor who specializes in the treatment of nursing women. And as someone who had spent several years with shards of glass in her finger, I can say with authority that a ductal yeast infection feels like you have long shards of glass in your breasts -- and it's never certain exactly what will set off the slicing searing pain, but it will happen many times a day. But because I didn't say anything, this doctor gave me a prescription for an ointment, and one for a low dose of an oral medication, and sent me on my way. I had to call back a week later to talk to a nurse because things were worse not better. Finally I was brave enough to quote some of what I'd read, so they tripled the dose of oral medication, and lo! the terrible thing finally started getting under control.

If You Don't Have Something Nice to Say, Don't Say Anything At All Syndrome. I have an allergist whom I like very much as a doctor. But, I've never waited less than 45 minutes after my scheduled appointment time to see him. And the last time I was in his office, I waited an hour and a half after my appointment time to see him. I was the second appointment of the day. There was no one in anaphylactic shock anywhere in the office. And yet, I only complained to the receptionist after my appointment. She said, "Did you mention anything to him?" Of course, I had not. He must have been doing something Important, right?

I have lots of other examples, but I think the point is clear. For reasons I cannot fully explain, I am completely intimidated by the authority of a doctor. I know that it must be incredibly annoying to doctors to have people come in and try to self-diagnose courtesy of the internet, and so I try hard not to be that annoying person. But here's the thing: it's MY body. I know how it feels. I also know how to do responsible research. And I'm not a hypochondriac. So why do I find it so difficult to speak up? Why can I not say, "Every time I come to this office, I wait nearly an hour to see you, even when my appointment is first thing in the morning. What's going on?" Why can I not say, "But while you think this infection can't be where I say it is, lots of literature would indicate otherwise -- and so would my incredible pain."

Do you have this problem? If not, where does your gumption come from? And how do I get over my absurd tight-lipped, self-destructive behavior?

By the way, I WILL jump up and down if necessary on behalf of my children. It's only about myself that I get all weird and shy. And I'm NOT like this in other situations. So. Very odd. Any thoughts? How do you challenge your doctor's authority in situations where it would be not only reasonable, but prudent and useful, to do so?

Distractions, Distractions...

This was going to be the post about my cleaning poll -- complete with statistical analysis of the results, and photos (Before AND After) of my house, and confessions about my cleaning habits, and all manner of wise-cracking about the lackadaisical cleaning skills of our maid (whose name is MommyTime). But while I have plenty of Before pictures, I'm a little short on After.

And since I've spent the last few days having a two-year-old's birthday -- including making that cake over yonder -- and grading 200 pages worth of research papers that required extensive comments, not to mention going to nearly endless meetings and teaching my classes, it's not like I can quick! quick! run around the house and take the After pictures. Because my house is still in a state of Before, you see. Also, I am so dog-tired that I can hardly keep my eyelids afloat. And since my mother is flying in to visit this afternoon, and I have a sneaking feeling that she will enjoy sleeping on a bed that has sheets on it rather than piles of clean clothes, random books, and a few children's toys, I think that perhaps I should spend the morning actually cleaning rather than just blogging about it. I know. Novel idea.

So I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few more days to see how clean my house would look if you came over for a playdate, with the extra bonus of knowing what it would have looked like two hours before you arrived. And instead, I have a few random things that need to be said that are all going together in this little post.

FIRST. I'd like to thank McMommy over at The McMommy Chronicles (or, as I think of it, the McCademy) for selecting me as a bloggy Be Frie. I am honored, and I will wear my half of this necklace with pride...all the more so since I never had an actual one. And for those of you who are confused, her half of this heart has "st nds" on it.

SECOND. I don't know how it happened, but Mommy's Martini is on the Alltop Moms page! This seems quite miraculous to me, since, while I adore all of you who read here regularly and comment, and I do know that there are a lot of people who read without commenting, it's not like this is a big-time blog or anything. So to whoever you are that nominated this blog, or chose its name out of a hat, or did whatever magic you do to get it listed on Alltop: Thank You. So much. The company over there is phenomenal, and I'm more than a little cowed to be rubbing shoulders with some of them. And for those of you who are looking for great blogs to read, and who have never checked out Alltop: do it now. You'll be hooked by all the great discoveries to be had over there.

THIRD. You know how sometimes you come across something while reading that just seems so right? So true. So accurate a description of something you know and live that you find yourself nodding your head as you read? Well, I reread this passage out of one of Elizabeth Gaskell's letters recently. She was a Victorian minister's wife and a very successful author of novels, and the passage comes from one of her letters to Charles Eliot Norton -- fellow writer and, most significantly in this context, a man who was not exactly beset with the same distractions from his work that Gaskell was on a daily basis. This letter spoke to me again about the multi-tasking extravaganza that is motherhood. And somehow, the realization that this was motherhood in 1857, and probably for hundreds of years before that, and probably for hundreds of years after now, put my life in perspective a little. So I leave you with this, eloquent, poignant, and funny description that may make you grateful that amongst all the things you do in your daily life, and all the hats you wear, you at least do not have to think cogently about how to sell cows while sitting at your drawing-room table.

"If I had a library like yours, all undisturbed for hours, how I would write! Mrs Chapone’s letters should be nothing to mine! I would outdo Rasselas in fiction. But you see every body comes to me perpetually. Now in this hour since breakfast I have had to decide on the following important questions. Boiled beef--how long to boil? What perennials will do in Manchester smoke, & what colours our garden wants? Length of skirt for a gown? Salary of a nursery governess, & stipulations for a certain quantity of time to be left for herself.--Read letters on the state of Indian army--lent me by a very agreeable neighbour & return them, with a proper note, & as many wise remarks as would come in a hurry. Settle 20 questions of dress for the girls, who are going out for the day; & want to look nice & yet not spoil their gowns with the mud &c &c--See a lady about an MS story of hers, & give her disheartening but very good advice. Arrange about selling two poor cows for one good one,--see purchasers, & show myself up to cattle questions, keep, & prices,--and it’s not ½ past 10 yet!"

Sounds a lot like Wednesday in my house. How about yours?

My Bookish Side

Thanks to Mr. Lady, I've got a meme about books to do. Here are the rules:

1. List three books you’ve always meant to read, but haven’t got around to them

2. Share the two books that changed your life

3. Recommend the one book you’ve been talking about since the very first day you’ve read it

And before we get started, I'll share a little secret with you: the reason I like this meme so much is that it does NOT ask me what my favorite book is. You might think "Wahhh? She's a literature professor...surely she can name a favorite book!" Here's the thing, though. It's not that I can't name a book I love; it's that I can't even come close to picking just one. It's sort of like asking a professional photographer which single picture is the best one she ever took, or asking a doctor which patient she's most proud of curing. Not that my work is as important as saving lives, mind you. Just that one gets so intimately involved with books, and books are so different one to the next, that it's hard to say which is the best. So, without further ado, here are my picks for today.

Books I keep meaning to read and never seem to find the time to

1a This fabulously illustrated book on Victorian England's Crystal Palace. I can't remember the name of the book, and it's on my bookshelf at work (story of my life; the book I need right this second is always on the bookshelf where I'm not) -- but it's a big book on the building and history of the Crystal Palace and the famous 1851 Exhibitions that took place there. Something like a World's Fair, but designed to showcase all the might that was the British Empire, the exhibitions were housed in fantastic glass houses, like enormous greenhouses. They fascinate me. But this is just one of the many books that looks wonderful that I've yet to open...

1b The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard. A book about how we occupy the spaces in which we live. Theoretical, dense, illuminating. And one of those I should have read long ago but never yet manage to open, though I've been renewing it from the university library for several years worth of semesters now with the sense that I will read it. One of these days.

1c The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. Sure, I saw the movie. But I've heard it's one of those rare movies that nearly captures the beauty of the novel, and that the novel itself is a magnificent and stunning thing. I keep meaning to see (read) for myself. But I've already seen the movie, and there are so many books, and so little time, and you see where this is going.

Books that changed my life

2a Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. A beautiful novel. The first time I read it, I was ten or eleven and on a long road trip with the family. I was transfixed by the romance. The next time I read it, I was in college -- and I was fascinated by Jane's anger. Every time I read it, I find something new in it to adore. And I think this novel, read so long ago, was the start of my love of Victorian literature.

2b Honey-Mad Women by Patricia Yaeger. It's a book by a feminist theorist, the first I ever read in its entirety. I honestly can't remember what Yaeger argues. What I do remember is that on nearly every single page, I was so excited about her ideas that I found myself writing huge long comments in the margins. And after I finished reading this book, I thought, "graduate school is amazing; ideas are amazing; my life, if I get to engage with ideas like this, is going to be amazing!" And a career was born.

A book I've adored since forever

3 The Complete Fairy Tales of George MacDonald. Read aloud to us as kids, these long stories took several nights each. "The Day Boy and the Night Girl" opens like this:

There was once a witch who desired to know everything. But the wiser a witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she comes to it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. She cared for nothing in itself--only for knowing it. She was not naturally cruel, but the wolf had made her cruel.

She was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red hair, and black eyes, which had a red fire in them. She was straight and strong, but now and then would fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment with her head turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had got out of her mind and on to her back.

How could you not fall in love with prose like this? I've been reading these stories (or hearing them) since I was eleven. And I just can't stop. You really should try them.

***

And now, as I've tagged several people for various things lately, I'm limiting myself here to just two. First, MommyPie, whose blog is fairly new to me -- but I'm thoroughly enjoying it and looking forward to getting to know her better. What's on your bookshelf? And second, Amy at Memories and Musing of a Mommy, who I know is going on vacation soon, and who might even have time to get to one of those books she's been wanting to read forever...

James Has Ants

"Mama, James has ants."

"Oh, dear!"

"And one day he brought his lunchbox to school..."

[Remembering the head lice precautions instituted in early November, Mama has visions of a stream of ants descending on the classroom lunch table from poor James's lunchbox.]

"...And they put peanut butter in because they didn't know we weren't allowed to have peanut butter at school."

Momentarily confused, Mama suddenly gets it and starts to giggle.

Son glowers, and says in an accusatory tone, "What's so funny?"

"Honey, what do you think James's aunts look like?"

"I don't know. Red, maybe? Or black."

Mama bursts out laughing, imagining two large maiden Ants standing on their hindmost pair of legs, wearing aprons, and making forbidden peanut butter sandwiches for little James.

"What? WHAT is so funny?"

"Honey, there are two words that sound alike: ants like a little ant, a bug; and aunts like Auntie MIQ. I'm guessing James has some aunts who are Aunties, and they are the ones who packed his lunch." Son begins to smile. I continue, "Do you think some little tiny ant bugs could pack peanut butter in his lunch for him?"

Son begins to giggle, then turns serious. "But, mama," he says. "I heard James's mama say so. She came to pick him up, and she said James has ants. So. Maybe they are. Ant. "

He looks quite sure of himself. I have learned that when he gets such a schema in his head, it is almost impossible to alter. So I counter with nothing else, and I drop him off at school, secure in his vision of lunch-packing bugs.

Who knows? Maybe I am wrong about James. Maybe he does have ants who whip up sandwiches for him in utter ignorance of preschool rules.

And maybe his house is shaped like a giant peach.




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Click the button for more of today's hilarity.

Back when Movies were Films

Don't you just love old movies? The glamor, the clothes, the plots. By turns funny, witty, romantic, searing, thought-provoking, suspenseful...old movies seem to capture all of the things I love best about film and none of the things I dislike. Such as gratuitous blood, excessive swearing, and an utter inability to walk into a room and make everyone riveted through the simple act of removing one's cloak and receiving a proffered glass of champagne. Although there are a lot of beautiful stars today, I have yet to find one who could manage that last as well as could Audrey Hepburn or Myrna Loy.

And don't get me started on the fabulous skin tones of people filmed in black and white. Honestly, I'm pretty sure any woman could look wonderful in that lighting with those talented folks behind the camera--and I don't think it was all just make-up artists and costume wizards. Part of it, honestly, is that women back then were supposed to look like women. You know, with hips, for example. And hats. Nothing balances a lovely set of curves like a broad brimmed hat. As a woman with hips (and hats -- I actually look good in hats), I have to say I do long slightly for those days.

Of course, in my dreams, I'm wearing one of those incredible floor-length satin cocktail dresses from the 1930s and exchanging witty repartee with a dashing man in starched shirt. It's not exactly close to my real life. But that's the whole point of a dream, right?

So my quiz for today is: What Famous Pinup Are You? And here's the great thing about it: there can't possibly be a bad or undesirable answer because hello, PINUP. They're all beautiful. So everybody wins. Here's me:

You Are Betty Grable

The ultimate girl next door You're the perfect girl for most guys Pretty yet approachable. Beautiful yet real.

What Famous Pinup Are You?

I'm not saying even remotely that the prose description is true. Who cares? It's my pinup fantasty, so we'll just say it's precisely accurate. And that my skin is that creamy and my pin curls that lush. Excuse me while I go back to my fabulous brunch party now. I think I need another canape and some more champagne...

Care to join me, whoever you are? (Who are you?)