I'm Simple-Minded...

...because my retarded cat (I'm not trying to be un-P.C. here, he really is retarded) cracks me up. Click below to watch him in action (he's a Tai Kwon Do master) and listen to me giggle uncontrollably like a four-year-old. You'll be thankful that I only recorded about 2 minutes of my Friday-night gigglefest, because (since I am simple-minded) I sat there fully entertained for about 49 minutes. Give me a retarded cat and a camera and I can bank up a week's share of endorphins.

Did I mention I might be simple-minded?

I'm filled with shame

I went to my favorite bulk-buying establishment this morning for a few basics, and a rotisserie chicken to feed the masses tonight while I head out with 'the girls'. I'm pretty sure Costco puts crack in their chickens. I mean, I'm not a particularly avid carnivore most of the time, right? But the smell of the chicken wafting through an enclosed car is too much for me. And I had to go pick up Princess S from preschool before going home. So that's maybe 2o-25 minutes in the car with that divine chicken smell making me heady and a bit delirious with chicken lust. Delirious. Chicken lust. Ya, that's right. I said it.

So, how to present a partially devoured bird to my family for dinner? Hi honey, I'm off for an evening of girl talk... have fun wrestling the wee ones into bed. Oh, and there's chicken in the oven. I got it for a screamin' deal, what with it having no arms and only half a breast...

And I have NO idea who ate all the brownies. So don't even ask me.

I'm a crunchy, granola, tree-huggin' sort at heart

I have never worn Birkenstocks (but that's mostly because of my foot phobia and general avoidance of any open-toed shoes) and I'm at least smart enough to know that my mug needs a little mascara and a touch of color to keep the children from running, shrieking, from the house each day. I've never smoked weed (Obviously. I'm way too well-behaved for that), and I don't get particularly worked up over the fuel my Odyssey gobbles up, but I am a bit militant about recycling around here. When I find E has tossed an empty saline bottle in the trash can, I promptly fish it out. I mutter to myself a lot while Wonderboy quizzes me annoyingly about why I talk to myself so much, and I schlep it to the recycling bin. I have a long history of recycling. Long.

First let me digress to gush over my first true love:

Sigh. Man, I loved that rusty heap. I'm not kidding. My Jeep was my banner of declaration to the world that I was a low-maintenance, outdoorsy, mountain-loving girl, and my boyfriend (not E) loved it almost as much (E never loved my Jeep, sniff, sniff). Mine was rust colored, which was good since much of it was rust-covered. I wore a barn coat that matched with metal clasps and a chocolate brown corduroy lining. I was so in love with the earth my closet consisted of nothing but earth tones. I was all about school, my Jeep and my dog. And so I was naturally all about earthiness.

Now, back to recycling. See, I got this brilliant idea. The city had no recycling program at the time, but I'm nothing if not ahead of the times. I can tell you that my parents' house generated no less than 92 empty gallon milk jugs per week. It was just killing me - my family was single-handedly killing the earth with milk jugs. So I put a call in to the city and discovered a location where I could drop off #2 plastics. Brilliant! I separated out one of the 14 trash cans that went to the curb each week, setting it aside strictly for milk jugs, and I guess the other 6 people in my family must have nodded in agreement that my idea was sheer genius, and then collectively rolled their eyes and snickered when I wasn't looking. Things went smoothly until that trash can was full. Well, dang it! I was busy trying to wrap my earth-loving little brain around biochemistry or something at the time. I had good intentions. My dad took those good intentions, otherwise referred to as the 92 milk jugs, and stuffed them in the back of my Jeep. Can you believe the nerve?! I tell you, there is NOTHING like the smell of 92 milk jugs baking in an enclosed car on a 95 degree day. I sat down right in the driveway and cried my earthy eyes out, and then I launched into histrionics, and then I cursed the earth and the entire dairy industry. Then I took those 92 milk jugs and stuffed them in the trash cans at the curb (my apologies, earth!) and drove as fast at my 2.8 L engine could take me to Kmart (with all windows open) to buy 17 vanillaromas. Dad: 1, Janna: 0.

There was no more recycling in our house, I can tell you that.

Lesson learned, Dad. Lesson learned.

Date Night

I want to throw my arms around the person (most likely a woman) who invented the concept of babysitters. E and I headed out last night for the art museum in the city, which we've sometimes thought about doing, but in 4 1/2 years never actually done. We had reservations at Lidia's (Bastianich - another of E's post-menopausal crushes) so it looked to be a lovely evening out sans kidlets. Wahoo!



After a bit of a rocky start involving my offering to cut up an apple to accompany the kids' pizza dinner, and an ensuing temper tantrum on E's part in response to my attempt to infuse the 'meal' with at least a wee bit of actual nutrition before departing we got on our way. I may or may not have sat in rigid, punitive silence for most of the 20 minute drive. But we recovered from the apple incident (we have about 2 disagreements per year, so they are usually noteworthy) in time to take on the museum. We admired the Jackson Pollacks, sighed at the Monets, squinted at the Picassos... and whispered conspiratorially in complete puzzlement over the two light bulbs, attached to an extension cord and stapled to the wall in the name of modern art. It was so lovely to wander leisurely (without fearing a toddler or two might self-combust at any moment, or begin giggling and loudly proclaim that their bum is talking, or blurt out in amazement at the striking roundness of some stranger's belly) and just soak it up in near silence.



Dinner was equally lovely. We stuffed ourselves with gorgeous pastas followed by lemon cake with meyer lemon sorbet and some kind of decadent chocolate and chestnut concoction. And the highlight of the evening -- arriving home to three sleeping angels. I've decided we should do this every night. Except the scene with the apple. Next time, no apples.

Things You May Not Know About 'E', part deux

(My apologies for being hung up on all things French at the moment. A recent perusal of our "France" photo album is to blame.)

• He hates know-it-alls


• He is a know-it-all -- especially in the kitchen. A recent episode in our kitchen involving my roasting a (perhaps?) partially still frozen chicken and threatening to ruin the schmaltzy potatoes in an attempt to beat the bird into sufficiently roasted submission brought this to my attention.


• He loves to talk back to the TV. Politics might be his favorite topic for TV-lecturing. His love of politics is precisely equivalent to my distaste for politics. So it would go without saying that at this particular time he finds himself frequently worked into a dither, and I have mastered the art of perfectly timed responses like "Yes!", "Right!", and "Absolutely! YOU should run for President!"


• He LOVES to play the organ in church. You have no idea how much this cracks me up.


• He loves "smart" sounding words. I sometimes think he picks a new favorite word and then stuffs it away in the back of his brain and waits eagerly for the perfect opportunity to use it. This goes back years before we ever dated, when we barely tolerated each other at work and spent way too much time trying to outdo the other in our "Battle of Words" otherwise known as "Who is Smarter?" Occasionally his efforts backfire and he uses a word incorrectly, in which case I torture him senseless. He really enjoys that.


• Landscaping and gardening are not his forte (although he would like them to be.) He did something artsy a couple of years ago with piles of dug up sod along one side of the house. I, as well as the rest of the neighborhood, still have no idea what effect he was going for.


• He loves to sing in falsetto. I think he would particularly enjoy playing the organ AND singing falsetto simultaneously.

Word of the Day: Lickery

As in, "See mommy, I'm a lickery kind of girl!"

Reflections on being a Superhero

My good friend Scully's comment on the kids' superhero capes and her own childhood memories of playing Wonder woman took me back. Way back! Wonder woman was one of my most favorite imaginative play scenarios. Wonder woman was all that and a bag of chips. The tiara, the bullet-deflecting wrist cuffs, and don't even get me started on her shiny bustier and the resulting spectacular décolletage. Oh, and did I mention the invisible airplane?

So as the oldest of three girls (and maybe the bossiest?) I was Diana. THE Diana. Me. Diana. Just me. Not them. And speaking of them, eh... next oldest was Dee-ana, and the youngest sister got the extra special title (wink, wink)... Do-ana. Now that I think about it, I don't even remember her complaining about being Do-ana.

Obviously I had ALL the amazing super powers. As for Dee-ana, I probably bequeathed her some fabulous super power like the ability to slice cheese without a knife or something, and poor Do-ana... Well, she was probably stripped of any superpowers she possessed immediately upon commencement of our imaginative play, and demoted to Official Airplane Washer or Tiara Polisher. So, to my indulgent sisters, thanks for humoring me. I, at least, had a great time playing Wonderwoman.

Ten dollar bargain buy of the week...

My mom would be so proud!

I live with Superheros

Patisserie Francaise!

We may live smack dab in the middle of an abyss of corn and soy fields, otherwise known as the Midwest, notable for little else but tornadoes, gusty wind from January through November, and torturous humidity. BUT (!) an unfortunate Frenchman trained in the fine art of pastry making happens to have set up shop just down the road (someone must have clubbed him and brought him over the ocean before his delirium broke and the realization that he was most definitely not in France any longer settled in - I can think of no other reasonable explanation for his being here). No matter. Too bad for him, yippee for us. His shop is full of pastries and chocolates (and even gorgeous bread, although anyone familiar with the French tradition knows that no self-respecting pastry chef bakes bread, and no self-respecting bread baker attempts pastries) which make me want to burst into happy tears. And if I close my eyes...and ignore the fact that the knee of one of my pant legs is being used as a tissue at the moment by who knows which one of the kids...I can almost imagine myself sitting in Les Tuileries garden on a green metal chair. E and I did this almost daily when we last we there (too long ago, sniff). So for now, I'm just happy as a clam with our resident pastry maker, because he's the next best thing to the real experience.

Shoe Thief!

Rant on SAMPLERS

I have a thing for Costco. I do love it, and I'm a sucker for just about everything they sell. I also love that they offer samples right and left, especially when we're toting three kids along through the store, laden down with milk and 80 lbs of dog food and great big slabs of salmon. But I CAN NOT STAND samplers who stand around in their own happiness oblivion brought on by the Ghiardelli brownies or the fresh pineapple. I want to beat these people senseless with their own little sample spoons. Honestly, I swear some of these folks crawl out of their warm little holes somewhere, not to shop, but just to feed on the abounding free samples at Costco. I need a foghorn on my shopping cart and a megaphone in hand so I can remind these people, these bains of society, that some of us are attempting to actually shop and WOULD YOU PLEASE MOVE ON! The best samplers are the loitering nincompoops, clogging up the aisles, because there's a wait for the cookies fresh out of the mini oven, or the hot meatballs out of the cooker. Like a line at a soup kitchen! It's my belief that if you need ONE meatball that badly, then you're worse off than I thought, and maybe Costco is just not the right place for you. Now that I've got that out of my system, I'm off to rummage up something to eat. I simply could not sample any of the tantalizing foods and drinks available on principle. Brilliant.

Quote of the Day

(While driving out of our neighborhood this morning)

Wonderboy: Mom I need a stick.
Me: Hm. What for?
Wonderboy: To make a sign.
Me: Why? Are you thinking of selling our house?
Wonderboy: I need to make a sign to stick in our lawn that says "Help! We're bored! Please help us figure out something to do!"

Stunning photography in Indonesia

Take a look HERE

Proprietary Issues

This girl has a mind completely, absolutely and firmly all her own. All our recent efforts to teach good behavior and respect for people and things have earned only cheeky retorts from this one. For example, "Stay off the furniture S", leads to "It's not YOUR furniture" or "Don't smother the cat please, S" followed by "It's not YOUR cat" and "You may not run in the the house S" naturally ends with "It's not YOUR house."

Well I'm thinking she has been lectured sternly on this unpleasantness of late, because today as we walked to school to pick up the boy, I asked her why her door was open when I went to her room to wake her from her nap. She answered like this:

"I think Chubby (nickname of cat formerly known for remarkable size, now only skin and bones, but nickname remains, and this is all neither here nor there for the purposes of this story, but I couldn't leave it alone lest anyone unfamiliar with the cat would wonder who 'Chubby' was, and why he was creaping into her bedroom) opened the door so he could sleep on my couch... uh I mean Daddy's couch... the couch he buyed with his very own money....the couch which is his and he buyed with money all on his own and it's his couch. It's Daddy's couch."

Someone has clearly attempted to set her right on ownership of everything that counts around here. And it wasn't me.

Tribute to Tuffy C

• Because a party isn't a party until Tuffy C and Uncle B are present and accounted for
• Because no one can put away Swedish meatballs like Tuffy C
• And because I may never have laughed so hard in my entire life until the auspicious premiere of "Karl Malone love cheesy ham sandwich", and nearly as much again the second time around. Endorphin rush!

Thanks Tuffy, Andy and Bobbert for the laugh.

All kinds of girliness going on

This girl is a skirt fanatic. Case in point: Braving the cold this week because we MUST have some scootering, bitter cold or not? Wear a skirt!

And because princesses can only go incognito for so long:

Hair accoutrements, lip gloss, excessive shoe addoration, sneaking mommy's perfume, teeny-tiny purses... a girly-er girl I have never met. The only thing NOT girly about this girlie is her dirty-old-man cackle. And some of you know what I mean.

What I learned today...

One of my guilty pleasures is NPR, and this morning a piece I listened to in the car stuck with me and I've been thinking about it all day. The conductor of the Baltimore Symphony and an otolaryngologist at Johns Hopkins have teamed up to 'investigate' the genious of Ludwig von Beethoven in light of the progressive hearing loss he experienced beginning early on in his life. What struck me were various snipets of his compositions modified by a computer program to approximate what Beethoven might have heard of his own music with advancing hearing loss. By the time he completed the 9th Symphony, it is believed that he may have been profoundly deaf. Deaf? Writing the 9th Symphony?!? As a pianist of no remarkable talent (and with full use of my hearing I might add) I'm dumbstruck by this. It's almost heartwrenching to think that he wasn't able to fully appreciate his own unearthly and gorgeous work. He died at 57, having been most likely clinically depressed due to the hearing loss as well as a lifetime of chonic abdominal pain, but I would argue (vehemently!) having composed some of the most powerful and moving music. Kind of inspiring, no?