A Year To Go

It is ridiculously too late/too early to be sitting on the floor, laptop on lap, typing the events of the past week. 4:08am, to be exact. I actually fell asleep at 9:00 or something this evening because of an awful headache. (I've been getting them a lot lately, and I don't know why. I better start writing my letters again.) But I'm awake, and you are the beneficiaries of my insomnia. (Aren't you glad that talkative friends now have blogs to air grievances and musings? It seems to relieve our need to spew via phone or in person. Not that I'd be calling any of you at this hour without this blog, but you know...)

So, yesterday was my birthday. The big two-nine. Not thinking about that one too much, as I feel I still have another year to wear tube tops and short shorts,

pursue my dreams of becoming a candy raver,

(thank you, Escobedos, for inspiring me google image this for over an hour.)

and finally get those family portraits done that I've been meaning to do for so long.


and my favorite...
the caption to this one was "these kids and their fancy kneeshelves."

Oh, good golly. It's 5:00, and I've not even begun writing what I set out to write. This is proof that an hour can be wasted too easily. If you're interested in further wasting your time, read the exchange on the right column of this link.

I'm Gonna Wash This Day Right Out of My Hair

I'm tired.

I have greasy hair.

No matter how I position myself on this couch, I can't seem to escape the body odor wafting up from my Tom's-of-Maine-what-are-you-good-for pits.

I'm listening to a Leap Frog toy play the same song over and over again, while fantasizing that it's fate is met with a bat.

We lost about 20 tomatoes in the last 2 days due to some gusty winds.

We ate Arby's for dinner tonight, because it's promotional free "roast beef" sandwich day.

I ate 2 "roast beef" sandwiches, while simultaneously thanking a friend for joining a Facebook cause. The Slow Food (healthy eating) cause.

Round-the-clock rotation of boots and bathing suits, their messy knotty heads of hair, and non-stop improv "shows" make for an unenthusiastic mom.

There are sticks laying on the floor in my kitchen.

The pile of laundry on our bed contains 90% of our entire family's wardrobe.

Fiona is laying stomach-side-down on a skateboard, Neve on her back, rolling from the coffee table to the dining room. And back. At 10:00pm.

I'm too lazy right now to adjust my current wedgie.

There's a pile of dishes in the sink from who-knows-when. ("Roast beef" sandwiches tonight, remember?)

The state of my hands have just left "your charming novice gardener" hands and entered "if they weren't dangling next to your huge ass, you'd think you were a dude" hands.

My legs are so unbelievably itchy from mosquito bites that I'm ready to use the cheese-grater.

There's not a drop of beer nor wine in the house. (The above photo prop was a bottle of balsamic vinegar. For effect.)

And sometimes blog-ventilation like this makes everything a little better. I'm off to take a well-deserved shower. Thank you for being a friend. You're a pal and a confidant.

(This may my creepiest Photoshop creation yet.)

Mythology Ith Funny

I hear this from our bedroom last night, while Terry watched Narnia with the girls:

"That thentaur hath a horth thutuck to hith butt."

translation:
"That centaur has a horse stuck to his butt."

Don and Tiny

I'm neither sure of the origins of the title or the story behind this cute rodent narrative. (Fiona is asleep now, but if her explanation is good I'll post an update tomorrow.) All I do know is that this was the title she gave Terry, and this is so telling of my daughter.

While her 3 year old sister has a wider vocabulary than her (granted Neve could talk the horns off a billy goat), clearly she has a lot she's thinking about and wants to say. And I love seeing it spill out onto paper.

My mother (an old fashioned Italian woman) is positive that it has something to do with "serving a man". I'm sure she was clutching her chest with bursting pride as she made this observation. Ah, madonne.

Reisenstraub met the Hornworm

Our tomatoes are turning red, slowly but surely. And we even have this lovely "Georgia Streak" variety that has shades of pink, red, purple, and yellow showing their colors. But, my favorite variety, primarily because of it's fun-to-say name ("Reisenstraub!", said with the worst angry German accent you've ever heard), is an early ripener. They are larger than their cherry friends, smaller than the Brandywines, redder than the Cherokee Purples and Eva Purple Balls, and... I can't remember the names of the other two remaining varieties we planted. I love them. I love that in the anticipation of watching these things grow, you become attached to every last "milestone" within the garden's fence.

• • •

I once made the mistake of telling a friend (in the company of my wide-eyed children) that I wanted to show them the great joy of my life, my pride-and-joy, the reason I wake up in the morning, etc, etc. I pointed the way to the garden.

Blink, blink.

(It goes without saying that the climbing leaves and mounds of dirt in the backyard fall in line after my children, of course.)

• • •

That is why when a gardener sees his/her children of the flora type being eaten by this giant:


...you get angry. But then you take it's picture. And then you read an Eric Carle book. And then you explain for the 90th time that week why you can't keep insects in the house as pets. And then you paint the picture of such insects curling up in bed with you when your sister forgets to put the lid on it's habitat (half-cut soda bottle with Saran wrap over the top). And then you try to un-paint that picture as the sun sets and children get a case of the heebeejeebees before nightfall.

Ahhh, nature.

The Trouble With Girls

Sarah and I are in the front seat of the car, on our way to the farmer's market.

From the backseat we hear the distinct sounds of miniature giggles.






MIKE: "That's not how you play. You have to find things inside the car."

NEVE: "I spy something yellow, blue, and green."

MIKE AND FIONA, in unison: "No! Only one color!"

MIKE: "Like this, Neve, 'I spy something red'."

FIONA: "The light!"

MIKE: "Right! Your turn, Fiona."





FIONA: "I spy someone handsome, with brown eyes, brown hair, and a white shirt", and a smile spreads from ear to ear.

Mike's head falls into his hands.

Isabelle Abramson Ceramics

(found on ffffound)

Sounds and Sights of Summer