Bombed in Flagstaff

Nah, not that kind of bombed. What kind of a girl do you think I am?

(OK, those of you who know me in real life, SHUT UP NOW. And quit snickering. I mean it.)

A bunch of us fun-loving geological-editor-type girls, and Lowell, went out to the Beaver Street Brewery in Flagstaff to try some microbrewed beer and we were photobombed (which the Urban Dictionary defines as "to drop in a photo unexpectedly...to hop in a picture right before it is taken".) We asked our waitress to take a picture of everyone at the table, and one of the waiters apparently thought he'd make a fine addition to the pic.




Well, he does kinda liven it up, I must say.

Carp Fair report tomorrow. I promise.

Bullets over Broadway

A bit scattered today, so bullets it is:

• I'm back from Arizona, but since I skipped the conference field trip to come home early and relieve the wonderful, amazingly good friend who was looking after my children so that I could attend, I have no awe-inspiring pictures of the Grand Canyon to share, just a bunch of pix of geological editors in group sessions during the conference and at a microbrewery after hours. Although I might post one of the latter due to the fact that we were photo bombed at the brewery.



• Is it just me, or do people using those cellphone earpieces look really stupid? They talk really loud too, like they want everyone to know they're very important. The Toronto and Phoenix airports were full of them.



• This past weekend was Carp Fair. All I found on my lawn afterwards was a single pop bottle. Yay! As soon as I download my camera's memory card, I'll post about our trip to the fair and the fun we had. Warning though, there were snakes involved. Big snakes. And an electric cow. And kettle corn. (My addiction to which I am squarely blaming on Jen. Thanks loads, Jen. Now I have 2 ways to get my fix: 1. visit the U.S. and buy lots of bags at a U.S. grocery store, or 2. wait for the Carp Fair to roll around next September and visit the booth where they make it. Neither of which is a very timely option.)



• I did it again. Small Favor came into the library on Saturday. I was up til 11:30 last night reading and I'm only halfway through. It's the best Dresden File book yet. I am wicked tired today.



• I am really tired of the American election media coverage. And I'm starting to get tired of the Canadian election too. Could we just all fast-forward to mid-November when this will all be over? Pretty please?

Going AWOL

Bye bye folks, I'm getting up at an unspeakably early hour tomorrow morning and boarding a plane bound for Phoenix, Arizona. I'm staying overnight with my dad and stepmum and then driving north to Flagstaff (pictured above) for a conference where I will be very busy eating way too much attending sessions and drinking margaritas learning what's new in the world of digital editing, publication production and dissemination.

See you on Thursday. You all behave now while I'm gone, OK?

Why yes, I *do* shop there. Now pass me my cane.

Rae (admiringly): Those are nice jeans.

Me (surprised and a bit flattered): Thanks, Rae. That's a nice thing to say.

Rae: Didja buy them at Old Lady?

Me: What?

Rae: You know, by the Disney Store?

Me: Oh, you mean Old Navy.

Rae: I thought it was called Old Lady.

Me: Somewhere a marketing exec is weeping in his latte.

"Damn you, Jim Butcher" and other stories

OK. Imagine that somehow Alice Cooper and Marilyn Manson had a love child. And that child had a raccoon. That raccoon? I look like that raccoon today. Large black circles under my eyes. I have not had enough sleep. And for that, I put the blame squarely on Jim Butcher.

It all started innocently enough last June. I was sitting in the living room of the large house that a bunch of us had rented in Niagara Falls, sipping wine and talking to the other parenting forum mommies who had travelled with their families from all over the US and Canada for a real-life get-together. I was listening to a conversation between Nikki from Calgary and Sara and Neil from Ohio about books -- SF mostly, which explains why I wasn't talking much. Once you get past Dune, I don't have much experience in that genre. The conversation turned animated when someone (can't remember who) asked someone else if they liked the Dresden Files by Jim Butcher. My ears pricked up when I heard the phrase "the only wizard who advertises in the Chicago yellow pages."

Fast-forward a couple of months and I'm poking around the library looking for something to read. I picked up Storm Front, the first of the Harry Dresden books. I liked it enough to request the second, Fool Moon. And I was hooked. Hooked, I tell you. Harry is a smart-ass PI who just happens to be able to deal with the occult as well as normal cases. You know, cheating husbands, demons, that sort of thing. The books are fast-paced, fun and funny. And I worked my way through them all.

Then he went and started another series, the Codex Alera, a fantasy series set in a world not unlike the Roman Empire in its politics, but different in that people have has some degree of command over elemental forces or spirits called furies. I put off reading it for ages, thinking it couldn't be as good as the Dresden Files. I was wrong. It's different -- high fantasy rather than urban fantasy, but enthralling.

I got the fourth book in the series, Captain's Fury, on Friday. I sat down with it at 8 a.m. in my pajamas with my Sunday morning coffee. I never got out of my pj's all day. I'm pretty sure I remembered to feed my kids (pretty sure -- I vaguely remember opening a package of hot dogs), but all other chores: lawn mowing, laundry, vacuuming, fell by the wayside. I was glued to the book. Monday morning I felt like it just wasn't fair that I had to, you know, go to work, instead of finding out what was going to happen. I finally finished the book at 2 a.m.

So. Me. This morning. Raccoon Girl. Yawning a lot. Way to make my life harder, Jim.

(And wouldn't you know it? I got a call from the library. Careless in Red is in. The book I've been waiting for 3 years for, to find out how Thomas Lynley is coping with the murder of his wife. Damn you too, Elizabeth George. Note to self: buy concealer.)

Move over, Keith Moon

Rachel has been getting a lot of play in my blog lately, so in the interests of fairness, I present a short film of Leah playing Rock Band on the Wii at our friends' place Labour Day weekend.

She *so* has my co-ordination.



Note: I love my kids. I respect them too, and their privacy and feelings, so if a picture or video or story about them appears on this blog, it's because I've asked them if I could post it, and they've said yes. (This morning I asked Leah if I could post her drumming video and she grinned her gap-toothed grin and said, "Cool.")

Not exactly how I pictured a princess...

Cinderella falls on hard times and starts knocking over liquor stores.

Who will be the Goblin King?

From my dreams last night:

Give me the child country.







Beware. I have been generous, up till now. I can be cruel.

Generous? What have you done that's generous?

*Everything*! Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that the child be taken there be affordable national childcare. I took him I gave parents 100 bucks per kid under six per month. You cowered before me, I was frightening. I have reordered time. I have turned the world upside down (well, OK, I kinda reneged on that income trust thing, but what do you expect, I'm a goblin), and I have done it all for *you*! I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Isn't that generous?

Let me rule you. I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle Prime Minister's Office beyond the Goblin City to take back the child country that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me. And seriously, does this look like October 2009 to you? Fixed election date? Please. Asshole.


************

Why these nightmares? Well, the writ dropped yesterday and it's election silly season north of the border now too. Oh yeah, and I watched Labyrinth three times over the weekend with the girls.

(Bowie is much hotter than Stephen Harper, by the way.)

How to Make Pole Dancers, or How I Spent My Labour Day Weekend

We have a tradition that the girls and I spend Labour Day weekend with friends south of Sudbury, where we used to live. We all gather at Lori's place (me and the girls, Lori and her family, Michelle and her family, and assorted others), unpack unseemly amounts of food, and free the children to run wild in a pack for the duration, unencumbered by enforced bedtimes or nightly baths. For them, it's hide and seek, catching frogs, Supermario Smash Bros. and Rock Band on the Wii, softball, swimming in the pool, ATV rides (slowly around the property with an adult), fishing, and bonfires.

For the adults, it's all about reconnecting, eating, retro music on the crazy-loud sound system, drinking, bonfires, stargazing, laughing til you nearly pee your pants, eating, and drinking. And did I mention drinking? The drink of choice for the weekend (for those who could be enticed away from beer) was the Pole Dancer. And here's the recipe:

Pole Dancers

1 oz Blue Curacao liqueur

1 oz Raspberry Sourpuss liqueur

Seven-Up

Lemon wedge

Mix liqueurs in tall glass, fill with ice and top up with Seven-Up. Squeeze lemon wedge into glass and then drop into glass. Tastes like a blue Mr. Freezie, but the lemon cuts the sweetness.

Drink two, and then decide that they take waaaaay too much time and concentration to assemble individually, and start making them by the pitcher: 6 oz Blue Curacao, 6 oz Raspberry Sourpuss, fill pitcher with Seven-Up. Stir. Clean up mess when mixture mysteriously foams up and over edge of pitcher. Squeeze lemon into glasses individually though.

Drink a couple more. Decide to play softball. Realize that you haven't held a bat nor run bases in 18 years. No matter, Pole Dancers confer the illusion of immortality, or at least softball competence. Grab a bat and swagger up to home plate. Talk some smack to the pitcher. Miss the first pitch. Hit a pretty decent grounder down the third base line on your second pitch. Start running to first. Take the time to reflect that if one is going to drink like a frat boy at age 44 after birthing two near-nine-pound, innard-stretching babies, one should probably pee before playing softball. Pole Dancers may confer illusions of competence, but continence is another matter entirely. Fortunately the next batter homers so you can walk carefully to home plate and excuse yourself to change your shorts. No one has noticed.

Arrange for the dads to take all children and dogs down to the hydro dam to go fishing. Mix up a new pitcher and bring a drink to each of the moms, who are officially off duty. Decide amongst yourselves that it would be relaxing to enjoy the Pole Dancers in the now kid-free pool. Try not to drown due to excessive laughing while trying to heave your bulk up onto an air mattress in the pool while under the influence.


Finally, make plans to enjoy the drinks, and each other, same time, same place, next year.

How to remove a squirrel from your fireplace, or I heart Google

The area I live in is semi-rural. I live in a small subdivision built in 1970, in a village of about 1500 people, surrounded by dairy farms, cornfields, and bush. So we do tend to interact with the local wildlife a bit. For example, there's been a skunk digging up my back lawn for the past couple of weeks looking for grubs. This morning, I took Old Carp Road on my way to work. It winds through forest for much of its length, and on the trip I had to honk my horn to get a fat doe to leave the middle of the road and I passed three wild turkeys grazing (or whatever it is that turkeys do) under the trees. The other evening, four fat raccoons came out of the culvert in the ditch beside my house (four!) and climbed my oak tree. I shouted at them to scare them off, but they just looked at me, and if those tiny paws could have formed the right shape, they'd've given me the finger for sure. But I digress...

This morning I got Leah up early for a 7 a.m. dentist appointment. At 6:45 she was sitting on the couch waiting for me to get my go-cup of coffee, when she suddenly said, "Holy Cow, Mum, there's a squirrel in the fireplace!" Our fireplace has an old brass surround with bi-folding glass doors (like old closet doors) and behind that, a chain-mail curtain, so that you can enjoy the heat of a fire without having sparks jump out and burn the carpet. Both the doors and the curtains were closed. I could see something moving around in there, but it was dark. Leah said it was a smallish squirrel, I couldn't see it very well, but the cat sure wanted to check it out. I decided to wait until after the dentist -- hey, maybe I'd get lucky and it would climb back out again. Maybe. If I was really lucky.

Forty-five minutes later we were home. The squirrel was at the front of the fireplace. He was huge. And grey. And he was sort of hanging from the chain-mail curtain. I could see his paler belly and the underside of his tail. What the hell was I going to do? Well, when in doubt, google it. Surely I wasn't the first person in the world to have this problem. So I went downstairs and googled "squirrel in fireplace". There were a surprising number of hits. Probably not as many as would result from "Hugh Jackman shirtless", but a respectable number nonetheless.

The first site, a wildlife rescue, said: "Do not remove the squirrel through the fireplace as it may escape into the room. Secure a heavy rope from the top of the chimney and drop it down to the fireplace. The rope provides a perfect escape route during daylight hours." Riiiight. I'm going to risk life and limb climbing a ladder and stuffing a rope down my chimney for a freaking squirrel. I don't think so. I'd sooner follow the advice of the 16-year-old staying with us: "Why don't you set it on fire?" (I'm pretty sure she was kidding.)

The next site, DoItYourself.com was a goldmine of information (and if this ever happens to you, this is where you should go for advice. Screw the rope down the chimney). It said that you have a couple of other choices:

Removal Through the House

Close all doors to any rooms in the house that the squirrel is not in. Close all of the curtains on the windows or the doors in the room where the fireplace or exhaust fan is located. If necessary, use newspaper to cover incoming light sources. Leave the curtain open on the window or the door where you want the squirrel to exit. Open that window or door as wide as possible. Remove the screen, if necessary. Open the door to the fireplace or the cover from the exhaust fan so the squirrel can exit. They will escape towards the light.

Now you're talking. That made a lot of sense. I locked the cat in the bathroom, the girls all went in my bedroom to watch TV, and I opened the sliding glass doors in the kitchen. I closed all the other doors and curtains, and the sun shone in the open door like a beacon to squirrely acorn-filled freedom. Gingerly, I opened one of the fireplace doors and the mesh curtain and jumped back. The squirrel didn't move. And I don't mean a cowering-in-fear kind of not moving, it was more of a not-breathing-ex-parrot kind of not moving. Great. Now I probably had a dead squirrel to deal with. I had changed into old clothes and was wearing heavy suede gauntlet gloves, and I pulled the mesh curtain aside. No movement. There were tufts of fur on the floor of the fireplace. He must have been thrashing around pretty good to cause that kind of damage. The body looked funny, though. Kind of formless and fluffy rather than furry.

Slowly, I put my hand out...and grabbed hold of....a big wodge of the grey insulation that had been stuffed between the edge of the fireplace surround and the fire brick inside the fireplace. It must have been dislodged by the squirrel running around in fear after falling into the fireplace. It was hanging against the mesh curtain doing a remarkable impersonation of the underside of a squirrel. The real squirrel was long gone, he probably climbed back up the chimney before we even left the dentist's office.

What an anticlimax. Two things occurred to me at that point: 1) if this ever happens again, I'll know how to deal with it (thank you Google), and 2) it is better to be lucky than good.

Ken is lucky he's not sleeping on the couch.

Two barbies (well a Ken and Jasmine from Aladdin), a decorative cushion, and my bathing-suit cover-up sarong look like this:



I didn't ask the girls what was going on in this scenario -- probably just Ken and Jasmine taking a nap (Ken is in swimming trunks and Jasmine is in a cute 2-piece top/skirt set), but the determined way they're ignoring each other got me thinking.


"I was not looking down her dress."
"Shut up, Ken."

Fun in Toronto

Did you ever look forward to something and then find that it wasn't as good as you expected?

Did you ever meet someone in real life that you had 'met' online and find yourself with nothing much to say because the person was so much different than you were expecting?

Yeah, well neither of those things happened last week when I got together with Josie (No Internal Editor) and Jen (Jen on the Edge) and her wonderful family. The girls and I had the BEST TIME in Toronto at Miniblogstock 2008. Jen and Josie are just as funny and sarcastic and great in real life as they are online. Jen's girls are lovely. And Jen's husband Pete makes me wish that human cloning was further along than it undoubtedly is. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to post about it -- I needed some time to recover from 11 hours of driving in two days followed by a two-day end-of-season soccer tournament and a sleepover play date I had scheduled at my place and then promptly forgotten about so it was a bit of a surprise when I got the call asking what time they should drop off the girl. Yeah, advancing maturity sucks, people.

Now where was I? Oh yeah. Toronto. I got up at quarter to four in the morning and finished loading the car, got the girls up at 4:30 and we were breakfasted and on the road by 5:15. We made good time except for a half hour detour in Belleville to find some ibuprofen for Leah who had decided to run a fever. And after reaquainting myself with Toronto traffic and driving manners (I've gone soft living in polite Ottawa for so long) we finally arrived, after circling the hotel like vultures for about 15 minutes due to one-way streets and no left turns and met everyone in the lobby of the Sheraton.

Talking non-stop, we walked down to Union Station and jumped on a streetcar for Ontario Place. The girls bonded instantly with Jen and Pete's two daughters and we spent a wonderful afternoon at Ontario Place, which was full of fanciful sculptures which are lit up at night for the Chinese Lantern Festival. Check out this one, my favourite -- it's a huge temple made entirely of dishes:

The girls spent almost an hour running around a play structure that looked like a cross between a McDonalds playland on steroids and a Habitrail.

We did the bumper boats (word to the wise, don't go on the bumper boats if you need to use the ladies' room. All the water splashing around will be a test of willpower, and with all the water that ends up inside the boat under your bum, you get all the discomfort of actually peeing your pants, but none of the relief) and the Wilderness Ride -- a log flume ride that was pretty good, but wet.

We saw an IMAX film called "Adrenalin Rush" in the Cinesphere, which was about skydiving and base jumping and was very exciting. Too bad the guy introducing the movie seemed to have mainlined some valium right before the performance. His monotone voice was truly mind-boggling, and had Josie and me in fits of giggles. It felt like high school again. But in a good way.

We ended up back at the hotel relaxing in Jen and Pete's room, where Pete took a picture to commemm comemmor so we could have something to remember our meeting by:

Then it was down to the pool for the girls to have fun.


And finally, to bed. Where Leah found out that the Tooth Fairy can still find you in a hotel. (And I nearly had an aneurysm trying to stay awake til the girls fell asleep so's I could slip some money under L's pillow for the tooth that fell out in the car on the way to Toronto.)


The next day dawned a bit foggy and rainy, but off to the CN Tower we went. This is the CN Tower as seen from our hotel room:


My pictures of the girls standing on the glass floor didn't turn out as stomach-churningly as Jen's did, but Leah gamely posed for me suspended over a horrible drop:


(Josef Karsh I ain't.)

We made it back to the hotel with Rachel whining all the way, and after some restorative ice cream, we said our goodbyes and headed back to Ottawa, where Max was very glad to see us.

If you ever get the chance to get together with bloggers that you read and admire, just DO IT. It's a wonderful experience. Now if I could just have some luck getting the Ottawa blogging chix together for another drink...

5 going on 15

Today, Rachel's bedroom. I'm helping rake up the detritus clean up her room. Sifting through the mess Picking up toys, I come across the Aladdin doll's one-piece white jumpsuit thingie.

Me: Um, Rae, what's this?

Rachel: Aladdin's clothes.

Me: You mean he's naked? [sympathetically] Poor Aladdin, he must be cold.

Rachel: Mom. [with all the disdain of a pms-ing teenager] He's a Barbie. Seriously. What's wrong with you?

Me: ...

****************

I'll be missing again for a couple of days as I'll be getting up at Oh-dark-thirty (or as my friend Ev says, half past crow piss) and hitting the road for Toronto for Miniblogstock 2008 (Hah! who needs Blogher). I'm meeting up with my major blog crushes Josie of No Internal Editor, and Jen, of Jen on the Edge. I'm sure that Hogtown will never be the same. (I'll take pictures. I promise.)

I'm not dead yet

Sorry for the unexplained hiatus. I'd like to say it was because I eloped with Daniel Craig or because I was beamed up to a spaceship (hey, alien probing would be more action than I've been seeing lately), or because I won the lottery and was busy looking at condos in the Turks and Caicos, but the reality is a bit more prosaic.

My mom is up visiting and I've been doing things with her and the girls, and other than that, periodontal surgery is the most exciting thing that's happened to me in ages and I hit a bit of a blog dry spell. So, until I can think of something interesting to write about, here's a picture of my pretend fiancé Daniel Craig to keep you amused.

How to have a crappy day: a primer

1. Have cat knock alarm clock off bedside table so that battery dislodges, alarm doesn't go off, and you wake up late.
2. Since you are going to be late for work anyway, take the opportunity to drop off cheques for July and August parking (even though it's half-past July, they haven't towed you yet) at the Polish Catholic church in whose lot you park
3. Sing this song loudly while waiting for the church receptionist to buzz you in.
4. Trip on your sandals while climbing the tile stairs up to the church office, dropping your purse and bruising your knee.
5. Try not to blush when the church lady, who has come running at the sound of your fall and is picking up objects which have been jettisoned from your purse, hands you a hairbrush and a business card from Fantasia that you got at a party in February.
6. Go into the office to give her the cheques and hear street noises, which leads you to notice that the closed-circuit TV coverage of the church door includes sound. Remember what you were singing loudly while waiting to be buzzed in. Wonder if the church lady will let such an obvious deviant such as yourself to continue to park on holy ground.
7. Walk to work from the church with sore knee.
8. Get to office and have just enough time to go through email before having to walk back to church (with sore knee) get in your car, and drive to the periodontist to have 'pocket-reduction surgery' on one quarter of your mouth.
9. Realize that nervousness about upcoming surgery has given you ummmm...stomach issues.
10. Drive wildly around periodontist's office parking lot looking for empty spot before pants accident occurs.
11. Find bathroom. Avert danger.
12. Wait in waiting room for 20 minutes.
13. Get shot up with enough novocaine, or lidocaine, or Michael Caine to immobilize a water buffalo.
14. Try to answer the bright and cheerful chatter of the hygenist with your frozen and seemingly swollen mouth and tongue.
15. Wonder if it's being filmed for youtube.
16. Try to relax and find your happy place* through meditation while listening to the periodontist and hygenist scrape, cut, suction, and suture your gums while discussing the quality of ribs served at Montana's Cookhouse vs. those served at Baton Rouge in Kanata Centrum.
17. Spend one hour (not exaggerated for effect) on the phone at the receptionist's desk with VISA because every time the receptionist tries to use your card to pay for it, the message "call for authorization" appears, and you get put on hold each time and then forgotten.
18. Find out that the problem is the magnetic stripe on your card (thus removing the unspoken belief you can see in the receptionist's eyes that you are over your credit limit) and that phone messages recorded on your home voicemail by VISA security staff have explained this, to which you reply that you AREN'T AT HOME, YOU ARE AT THE PERIODONTIST'S OFFICE AND THE FREEZING IS WEARING OFF AND YOU ARE IN A VERY BAD MOOD.
19. Finally pay using VISA once the receptionist enters the number rather than swiping the card.
20. Return to work, and after leaving a long, garbled, barely understandable message on the voicemail of a scientist in Halifax regarding Crown copyright, decide it's best for all concerned for you to go home and claim sick time for the rest of the day.
21. On the way home, stop to pick up some Listerine, which the perio has told you to use 4 times a day.
22. After you get through the checkout, you notice that the skies have opened and it's pouring rain. You are not wearing a jacket. Your umbrella is, you guessed it, in the car.
23. Wait for 5 minutes and then decide that the rain isn't going to stop anytime soon. You're headed home anyway, where you can change into dry clothes, so you might as well just suck it up and jog out to the car through the rain. With the sore knee.
    
24. Get soaked within the first 30 seconds. Realize you don't remember parking your car that far from the store. The flash flood in the parking lot creates puddles so deep that you are submerged to your ankles. You are wearing jeans. They are not flood pants. Your wet birkenstock-like sandal goes shooting off your wet foot and hydroplanes across the giant puddle. Twice.
    
25. Make it to the car, get in, swing the wet hair out of your face, put the car in reverse and the rain stops. Like someone turned off a switch.
    
26. Go home, take some more Advil, and sleep, you're going to need your strength for when the kids are done at daycare.

*more on the happy place meditation tomorrow

Again with the drinking

Was blog-jumping a while back and came across this meme at Whiskey in my Sippy Cup. I filed it away and forgot about it until today. Because I've been on vacation and far, far away from my computer. Well, not geographically far, since we stayed at home, but mentally far, far away, like splashing around in the pool. And playing at the playground. And feeding ducks at the Arboretum. And running around screaming at the splashpad. And sitting on the deck under the gazebo drinking wine and reading.

I'm a classic. Who knew?

You Are a Classic Martini

You are a sophisticated drinker, who knows that simple quality is never over-rated. You're a knowledgeable drunk, but sometimes you're a know-it-all when you're blasted. You should never: Drink and gossip. You tend to forget who's standing right behind you! Your ideal party: Has a real bartender. But no one mixes a better drink than you. Your drinking soulmates: those with a Chocolate Martini personality Your drinking rivals: those with a Margarita Martini personality

What Flavor Martini Are You?

The weekend by the numbers

I ran this same type of post last year at this time. And was reminded when I saw it quite serendipitously on Rude Cactus this morning. So, due to a lack of originality, and without further ado, I present:

My weekend by the numbers:

Number of children with strep throat: 1 (Better than last year, when I had 2 children with chicken pox)

Number of years since my ex walked out: exactly 3 on Sunday

Number of glasses of wine consumed in celebration of singlehood: 2

Number of nights a sleep-out in the tent in the backyard (practice camping) was attempted: 2

Number of nights actually spent in the tent in the backyard: 1

Number of storybooks read by flashlight: 3

Number of silly jokes told and giggled at: 1,583

Number of times I said, "It's only the wind in the tree.": 312

Number of children who ended up actually sleeping *ON* me in the tent: 2

Number of times I woke during the night due to being elbowed: 14

Number of big trucks and heavy machinery that rumbled past the backyard at an ungodly early hour of the morning on their way to the new subdivision being built : 26

Number of Advil taken for lack-of-sleep headache: 1

It must be a sign

The girls bought this at the dollar store:


Rachel keeps hanging it on my bedroom door knob.

Five years old, and already a working knowledge of irony.

I don't think I want to sail on *that* pirate ship

Rachel, running around the house wearing a black eye patch emblazoned with a skull and cross-bones, brandishing a foam-rubber cutlass:

Rae: "Mom, I'm a pirate!"

Me: "Cool. Say something pirate-y."

Rae: "Arrrrrrr, me herpes!"

Me (envisioning a cold-sore-crusted Captain Jack) : "I think you mean 'me hearties'."

Rae: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yep."

Horror at Make Out Point

You can enlarge by clicking if you can't read the text.

Not all urban legends are false......the Evil Ninja Assassin Cat returns.

Horror at Make Out Point

In theatres Wednesday.