Word of the Day: Strefulated

As in "I'm getting strefulated!"

I believe it may be a linguistic hybridization of stressed + frustrated.

Pow-wow! and Movie Morning

"Falling Leaf" (Wonderboy's American Indian alias) treated us to quite a show Tuesday. There was dancing, songs, drumming and lots of finger plays, of course. We also watched a particularly effective "snow dance", which unfortunately resulted in a dusting of snow yesterday.

Last night I promised the kids this morning would be Movie Morning. They were so excited that I found Kai staggering about his room at 11:00 p.m. last night clutching his pillow because, he said, "I'm getting ready for Movie Morning!" I coaxed him back to bed, but both kids were ready at 7 a.m. with their pillows and blankets to crash on the floor for the movie. We nogiated baths, clean clothes and some breakfast and then they settled in.

There were a couple of tense moments...

but they loved this rare indulgence (complete with sugary kid cereals for breakfast! Ack!) and E and I have had a chance to pull together all the bits and pieces of our little Thanksgiving feast.

I'm thankful for loads of things. Just one of which is a hubby who cooks! Cheerfully to boot. Ha!

O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! ~ William Shakespeare

Happy Thanksgiving!

A hero in our midst

Last night at dinner, Wonderboy was horrified to discover a bug had landed in his glass of milk. He began shrieking, but daddy-to-the-rescue! fished that bug out and handed the milk back. Wonderboy said, "You're a hero dad." And he just chugged his milk down like nothing had happened. I won't even go into how gross it is that he drank it, and even better, that E handed it back to him fully expecting him to do just that. Anyway, he then launched into a little ditty from his favorite show "Higglytown Heroes", a strange little cartoon starring nesting dolls (why?)...


You're a Higglytown hero, brave and true,
you help the town with the things you do.
We'll work real hard in the things we do
so we can be a hero, just like you.


This morning when we all woke up and E was long gone off to work, Wonderboy was working feverishly on a little project downstairs: a hero-worthy recognition award.

Notice the Frankenstein portrait (his new favorite character), and Boo! which he proudly writes on everything. I blocked off his name because he also loves to write that on everything. Wonderboy bestowed this medal on a very honored and humbled dad when he got home from work.

In which she got lost.

A few years ago (when we'd just learned kidlet #1 was on the way), E was headed off to Africa for a week for work, so I booked myself a little trip. I took an evening flight out with plans to wake up in the Netherlands. I deboarded the plane having not slept a wink, but I was ready to see Amsterdam, even on fumes. After a brief tussle with a strung out American as I exited the train station, I decided to just hoof it to the charming and quaintly sparse room I had booked in a canal house. It was ridiculously early in the morning, maybe 5:30 a.m. there so I counted on killing some time walking. Reading maps - not my favorite thing, so I just trudged off in the general direction I thought I needed to go. Bad idea. I had no idea you could select a nudey girl of your choice through a storefront window at 5:30 a.m., but apparently you can. And while you're making you're selection, you can peruse a mind-boggling array of toys, props, and sundry accoutrement, the likes of which I would have never imagine existed. Let alone existed in one-stop, for-your -convenience shopping. I was smack dab in the middle of the red light district, and for what it's worth, there were no red lights. A little flashing red warning light would have been most helpful. Not somewhere I meant or wanted to be walking alone, but the architecture is lovely, even in the seediest part of town, and if you're not interested in the 'ladies' or all the hardware and tools for sale, what else are you looking at?

I got good and lost. And I mean LOST. Of course I did make my way on eventually, after an uncomfortable hour and a half or so. By the time I made my way out, I think I knew some of those girls on a first name basis. And, by the time I had my bearings, I knew the layout well enough to be sure not to stumble through there again.

At the end of my trip - which was otherwise completely G-rated as far as I recall - E joined me for a couple of days. We were walking through the town center one morning and passed a "Sex Shop" in the row of touristy shops. There was a group of British tourists behind us and I could hear one couple in particular talking. This was what I overheard (think best Cockney accent):

Him: Come on, now!

Her: Oh, go on!

Him: Would you come on now and STOP OGLING THE BLOODY DILDOS!

Absolutely the highlight of my trip. Laughed so hard I cried.

Today I saved a life.

Here is how it went down. Bubby was cruising around as usual, putting anything that fits into his mouth...into his mouth, as usual. I noticed he was sucking on something - and drooling a lot, so I did the old finger-sweep trick and came up with....a ladybug. Deeply disturbing right? But it was alive!! I can't explain how heebie-geebied out I was to discover its little legs awigglin. I did the heebie-geebied, spazzing-hands freak out, so the poor thing which just escaped being eaten alive now flew through the air and landed legs up in my sink. I was afraid I did it in for good with the air launch, but I think it just might make it now. Its legs are wiggling once again.

The creepy thing is that there are a lot of ladybugs in our house right now. I don't know why - do they try to get inside to escape the cold nights? Anyway, now I'm wondering how many of these things (which really should stay outside where they belong in my opinion, thank you very much!) has Bub been noshing on? Blech!

Happy Diwali!

Diwali Meaning & Significance -

Deepavali is a festival where people from all age groups participate. They give expression to their happiness by lighting earthen 'diyas' (lamps), decorating the houses, bursting firecrackers and inviting near and dear ones to their households for partaking in a sumptuous feast. The lighting of lamps is a way of paying obeisance to god for attainment of health, wealth, knowledge, peace, valor and fame. It is one time in the whole year that children volunteer to leave their beds long before the day begins. In fact, the traditional oil bath at 3 a.m, is the only chore that stands between them and the pre-dawn adventures. They emerge, scrubbed clean to get into their festive attire, and light up little oil lamps, candles and scented sticks(agarbathis), the wherewithal for setting alight crackers and sparklers. On Diwali night, little clay lamps are lit in Hindus homes, but now a days colored electric lamps are also used. What is the significance of lighting a lamp? There is a logical answer to this question. It is through the light that the beauty of this world is revealed or experienced. Most civilizations of the world recognize the importance of light as a gift of God. It has always been a symbol of whatever is positive in our world of experience. To Hindus, darkness represents ignorance, and light is a metaphor for knowledge. Therefore, lighting a lamp symbolizes the destruction, through knowledge, of all negative forces- wickedness, violence, lust, anger, envy, greed, bigotry, fear, injustice, oppression and suffering, etc. Competition is stiff, and even the little girl in silk frocks and their finery are watching out for the best sparklers and flowerpots, the rockets and Vishnuchakras, which light-up the night sky like a thousand stars. Festive bonhomie abounds.

Surprisingly enough, we have been exposed here in the middle of nowhere to some cultural variety. On one side of us lives a family from China. On the other, a couple from India. They are awesome neighbors. Miss Anjana is the kind you call when you need someone to feed the cats while you're away, and she will do it happily although she is NOT a fan of the feline species. If you're lucky they invite you to parties with amazing Indian food, and the kids are enveloped by women of all ages in brightly colored saris and gold jewelry who pat the kids' cheeks and offer them sweets. You'll feel drab dressed in your regular clothes, and secretly wish you could wrap yourself up like the women in their gorgeous silks, or the men in their comfy lango shirts.

My neighbor has recently gone to India, so unfortunately there are no Diwali festivities underway around here. But if you feel up to it, eat some curry and light some lamps. Five days of Diwali - the festival of lights - starts today folks!

In which she worked retail

Something today reminded me of my brief stint working in 'Petites' at Bloomingdales a few years back while waiting for the funding to come through for my job in D.C. and the usual hoops and legal rigmarole required to open new positions through U. Penn. I was thinking - I like clothes, I enjoy shopping now and then, maybe I'll enjoy it, right? WRONG. It was hell. If I have the misfortune of going to hell someday it will be this: an endless eternity of working retail in hell's own windowless Bloomingdales complete with lots of finicky old biddies to pander to. A couple of 'regulars' were particularly memorable, and they will surely be there in my own hell to make the experience complete.


Perhaps my favorite was a VERY old woman who truly seemed as if she had been sealed up in a brownstone for twenty years and just emerged bedecked in jewels and antique lace to do a little shopping. She demanded my complete and uninterrupted attention for the entire three hour stay in my dressing rooms while she insisted I look are her tushie to determine if the velour sweatsuit she was considering "cupped her bottom" far too much. I truly can't remember if she decided against the sweatsuit or not, but what I do recall too clearly is that I would have rather dug my eyeballs out with soup spoons than spend another moment looking at that woman's cupped behind.


In a close second was a woman with six toes on each foot. How do I know that? Because she was a frequent shopper in that department, and apparently the only shoes a six-toed woman can wear are strappy little sandals. See you just poke that sixth toe out the side between a couple of the straps and voila! you're good to go. I think she was a perfectly nice customer, but I don't like feet anyway, and those extra toes poking out were just, well, ick.


If nothing else, I have a greater respect for anyone who can work retail because my few weeks at Bloomies were sheer torture. I'd rather give pedicures for a living, and anyone who really knows me, knows that's saying something.