F*$@ You Lucy, Bag and Bug Do Not Rhyme!

On a scale of 1 to 10, how appropriate is it to call 6 first graders playing rhyme bingo "The Rhymesayers"?

What about when one of them finds the word "fock" and asks if it's a word?

Building Buildings, Peeling Paper

We started to re-do the bathroom this summer. Or at I tore at a strip of wallpaper that was peeling. This was a lot more fun than I thought it would be, and led to naked walls.

Meanwhile, the Galleria started to build a parking ramp at about the same time I tore down the first wallpaper strip. I drove by the Galleria the other day, and people were parking in the 6 story garage while my bathroom walls are still bare.
Ouch.

Among Other Reasons Why We Did Not Form a Famly Band and Tour the Countryside

The thing about being 4th of 4 in the sibling line dance is that one stops getting particularly surprised. Except when, within a week, you discover that Brothers are both pregnant.
With commitment that is.
They have girlfriends which I don't really count as official until I've met them, and properly assessed who they are around their new counterparts. Thus far, I approve. They are both shy and brunette and both have the ability to make the brothers lose sight of what's really going on.
Oh.
And Sister is pregnant.
With child.
And another round of commitment, also I suppose.
She and I share the general fear of being outnumbered by children, for her it's her own kin, but I don't really hold that boundary.
I advised her that if she was going for three, it's ludicrous to stop there.
Because after all, the perfect child is child IV.

Leftovers

I have arrived home from The Family Muffin Giving Thanks Marathon '06. A three-day giving thanks extravaganza.
Thanks to the pilgrims, we are forced at least once a year, to gather with the people who we would love to strangle if given the chance to make it look like an accident.
But, alas, we go. Because there is food. And pie. And we sit around and poke a dead bird, cooking it for an hour for every four pounds (not the vice versa that I suggested at the feast), eat can-shaped berries, and in my case, are forced to eat a rutabaga to see if this is the year I will like them.
And I will not.

Cranking Up the Hearing Aids

There's an opening in our bridge club. I play with the gals on Tuesday nights at 3:30 before supper.
I also got my AARP card in the mail today right after I got the x-ray results which reveal that my hips aren't actually those of a 78 year old woman, but likely just feel like they are because I have bursitis. Which rarely occurs in people under 40 and is the result of high-risk activities such as raking, gardening, and carpentry.
After I set Dr. B straight, assuring him that I do not participate in any sports, that my gardening career has been cut off before it began, and don't jump, dance or generally activate myself often, he brushed it off as a form of arthritis, or inflammation of the bursa.
I'm thinking about asking for my own copies of the films to bring into Perkins to see if I qualify for the 55+ French Toast breakfast. "Here, look at my pelvis. See? Bursitis. I know, I know. I don't look 78, but believe me, I am totally deserving of the 3 slices at the reduced price. Hey. Would you talk to your grandmother that way?"

Bugger!

Remember when I got totally stoked about renting the entire first season of The Office?
And then when I accidentally rented the original, British version of the show, The Office?
And then how I punched my fist through the TV at the annoying accents and complete lack of Steve Carell?
Me too.

Okay, Seriously.

Or at least as serious as one, myself included, can get while blogging.
What do you say when this happens:

Boy 1: "Hey Ms. T...Is Santa real?"
Boy 2: "No, the real Santa is dead."
Girl: "Santa IS real!!"
6 big eyes stare at me in anticipation.

I search for non-religious-in-a-public-school answer.
Then walk away.

Bigger is Better

You Know That Sound That Scissors Make gets a face lift today.

Blogger in Beta and I have started to overcome our differences for the greater good. Or, the Blogger team fixed all the coding holes like not being able to comment on non-Beta blogs. Times are better now. And I wasted an hour of this morning playing with templates, fonts, and colors.

The conclusion:
1. Links which have already been clicked on will now be plum. Because plum is in.
2. Bigger fonts are better because (a) I don't have to wear the reading glasses to read posts. (b) When I post little posts, it looks like more.

I am a Writer, Writer of Facts

Texting Matt
Matt's Calling
Me: Hi...we're...(looks up)
Matt: She's on stage.
Me: She's on stage.
Matt: She's doing a jig.

I paid for a Decemberists concert ticket, but got an unexpected showing of the Superman underpants. Just kidding.
Colin was sick, but in both ways. In the "Colin was so sick last night, he ran off stage before everyone else probably to go throw up in the tour bus before coming back for the encore" way and also in the "Colin rocked so hard last night, it was sick" way.
Also, I made a new best friend and her name is Lisa and she's not actually in the Decemberists, but she can play more instruments than I have fingers and her hair is unbrushed and totally rock and roll and we're best friends.
She maybe just doesn't know it yet.

Ruining Childhoods, One Second Grader at a Time

Me: Oh is this your daughter?
Mrs. N: Yes. This is Emily. Say hi, Emily.
Emily N: Hi.
Me: Hi! I'm glad you're here today.
Emily N: Me too. I don't have success center at my school.
Me: Oh really?
Emily N:Yeah. I came here today just because, and because my mom's the teacher.
Me: Okay, well welcome.
Emily N: Thanks.
Me: So they don't have success center at her school?
Mrs. N: Nope, not until third grade.
Me: Right.
Mrs. N:Yeah, Emily's FOL so we'll be sending her next year.
Me: FOL?
Mrs. N:Foundations of Learning...She needs intervention.
Me: Ohh...(?)
Emily N: Wait, what? I'm going to success center next year?
Mrs. N:Uh....Yes honey.
Emily: WHAT?!
Me: Oh, sorry...
Mrs. N: No, it's just, she just, she struggles, Emily you struggle sometimes, and we work on it at home...
Emily N: I DON'T WANT TO GO!!!!!!!!
Mrs. N:Oh God. I'm sorry. Emily, its just. She just needs intervention.
Emily: AHHHHH! (Pouts in corner for next 60 minutes)
Me: I'm...sorry.
Mrs. N: No. Its just. She needs intervention with reading. Well it's a long explanation.

Shortly thereafter I told Emily she was adopted, that chocolate was a vegetable, and that Santa was a hoax. Then I killed My Little Pony.

Light at the End of the Blog Tunnel

Sometimes you feel like you've blogged all there is to blog.
And then something like this happens:

"I'm sorry guys, I don't speak Guatemalan."

The sun shown through.
And the Blogger formerly known as Lift_Her_Pull_Her blogs once again.

Nature and Nurture Come Together for the First Time

I'm in the market for a new hobby.
Because buying replacement parts for my phone on eBay is getting expensive, and I've simply run out of time to finish plotting the end of the world.
You know how it is.
I think I'll take up gardening. I understand that, depending on which way you look at it, I'm either six months early, or six months late with this, as carrots don't grow when their home is frozen. I don't blame them. I wouldn't either. But, my blood rushes at the thought of going to a gardening store (Do these exist? Must Google.) and getting my very own mini shovel (also Google: correct gardening equipment terms), veggie seeds, gloves and maybe even a gardening apron.
This brings me back to the childhood days when I used to take up sports and activities for the equipment they came with. (See: Swim caps, hockey gloves, volleyball knee pads, gymnastic leotards, and any sport that requires special shoes or equipment bags.)
I plan on growing various beginner veggies, because I don't really appreciate flowers, although they are aesthetically appealing to some, they are not food. At the end of the growing season, I'll make a dinner with the fruits (Veggies. Can I grow fruit? Google.) of my labor.
For you. You're invited.
Come at your own risk.

He Went to the Pumpkin Farm with Jesus

It's probably for the better that when I come home from a weekend away, my muffin pumpkin is gone.
True, I don't like Halloween.
True, I don't like squash or foods in the squash family.
True, I love the word squash, it may be playlist-worthy.
And true, I can imagine that this is how Senorita Cosita felt when she came home and it was like Freckles was never there. He's in a better place, my dear. He lived a long, 14 year, beagle life. Too soon? Apologies.

Coming From The Kid Who Made Her Dad Ring The Bell

Halloween sucks.

Normal kids can go out, knock on doors, retrieve various tooth decay, and go home dressed in a normal witch costume.

Minnesota kids are Eskimo Dorthy, Alaskan zombies, and pirates who sail the Arctic Sea. They're mittens can't grab candy from the basket, and their voices criticizing my muffin pumpkin are muffled by scarves and chattering teeth.
Opening and closing the door lets in a rush of frozen air that pisses me off as much as the doorbell angers the dog.
Except I don't bark.
Most of the time.

When I'm old and motherly, I feel like I still won't have the capacity to treat small, frozen, whiny children with the charm my mother does.
She:
Ring.
Knock.
"Hiiiii! Ohhhh what a scary witch! You look fantastic! Wow! Oh here, little scarecrow, I love you're hat..Have two Butterfingers! Alright! Everybody have some? Okay! Have a great night kids! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!"
I:
Ring.
Knock.
"Hi. Okay. There..One each. Now get your greasy mitts off of our property before I call the cops."