Occupy yourselves

Because I'm kinda swamped this week and don't have time to write all the inspirational, kooky stuff in my head, I am going simply going to direct you to a few of my all-time favorite blogger/photographers. These folks are wonderful and on top of that--as if their lives and stories weren't interesting enough, and they are--they take amazing photos. You might have to look for the photo links, but what? It would kill you to do a little work and burn off some of that holiday food?
Enjoy.

JinkyArt
Profgrrrrl
Mr. Winkerbean (yes, Mark, I am hell with the nicknames)
That Crazy Beth

The Ghost of Christmas Present

Time: 5:30 a.m., December 25, 2005
Place: My bed
The Boy, sitting straight up: Is it Christmas? Has Santa been here? Can we go downstairs?
Me, looking at the clock and knowing the Ex and Monica aren't coming over until 6:00 and I promised to keep the kids from opening gifts until then: No. I don't know. No.
TB: MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
Me: Not until the sun comes up.
TB: [Heavy sigh]
The Girl (on the other side of the bed): [snore]

5:35 a.m.
TB: Why did you make up that rule? That's a horrible rule!
Me: What? It isn't my rule, it's everybody's rule. That's Santa's rule. Ask anyone. Christmas doesn't start until the sun's up.
TB: That's a horrible, horrible rule.
TG: [snore]

5:40 a.m.
TB, wailing: That isn't Santa's rule! That's the DEVIL'S rule! The DEVIL made that rule because it makes people cry, and the devil loves it when people cry! I HATE THE DEVIL!
Me: [snort]
TG: [snore]
TB: Everyone hates the devil! Does anyone love the devil?
Me: Well, a few people, but they're misinformed. Go back to sleep. I'll rub your back.
TG: [mumble, mumble, snore]

5:45 a.m.
TB: The sky! The sky is turning light! I see it!
Me: No it isn't.
TB: Yuh-huh! Can I go look out the window? I won't go downstairs, I'll just stand by the window.
Me: Sure, hon.
TG: [snore]

5:55 a.m.
TB: Why is moon still out? WHY?? The sun can't come up when the moon is still out!
Me: Sure it can, bud. You see the moon out during the day all the time. Don't worry. Want me to come watch with you?
TB: Yes!
TG: [snore]

6:05 a.m.
Text message from the Ex:
We just woke up. We're on our way.
Me: [Thank HEAVENS]
TB: Is that the sun?? Is that the sun?? Is that the sun??
TG, sitting straight up: Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Happy holidays, sweetie-darlings, from all of us here chez SBFH to all of you out there!

The Mommy's Little Helper Alphabet

Happy Holidays from that Paragon of Parenthood, Orange Tangerine, and me, the one who drinks a lot. Smoochie!

A is for amphetamines, that keep your mommy perky
B is for the Benadryl, that stops her getting jerky
C is for the chocolate, worth its weight in gold
D is for mama’s Demerol, when baby’s one day old
E is for eggnog, spiked with some rum
F is for...oh, don’t even pretend you don't know what F is for, people!
G is for Godiva (see C above)
H is for headache, when Mommy don’t want no love
I is for ice cream that fills the tummy
J is for a jacuzzi to make Mama feel yummy
K is for kisses—the kids’, so gentle; the lover’s, deep
L is for late night, when kids are asleep
M is for Midol, in case you must ask
N is for Nubain, to help labor pass
O is for orgasms—need I say more?
P is for pizza, delivered to the door
Q is for quiet, one minute’s enough
R is for rest (hey, remember that stuff!)
S is for sitters, who cut us some slack
T is for TV getting kids off our back
U is for underwire ‘cause Mama’s boobs are flappy
V is for vibrators that make Mama so happy
W is for whiskey, sipped out of a cup
X is for Xanax, when Mama’s worked up
Y is for “yes, Mama”--better than “no!”
Z is for Zzzzzz, off to bed we all go!

©2005, Psycho Kitty and Orange

I never knew that!

Did anyone else know that Shirley Jones is the Mother Of All Shopping? I knew she was the mother of all Partridges, but shopping? Who knew?

In other news, I cracked up yesterday when the Girl referred to the carpet-cleaning guys as "those working boys".

Her daycare had its annual Holiday concert, and her class sang "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". She was belting out that song for weeks. The night finally came. She was dressed up and ready to sing! The curtain opened. She was right in the middle. She looked out upon her adoring fans....and wailed like a friggin' banshee. That's my girl!

Later we got in line for Santa. Earlier in the day, in a fit of pissiness because I wouldn't let him tear open the paper on his presents "just a little to see whether there was more paper underneath" (!), the Boy said, "I am SO mad at you, Mama. I hate you!" "Woooohoh," I shot back, "I sure hope Santa didn't hear that!" "Santa!" he scoffed. "Santa is nothing but a FAIRY TALE!!!" I opened my eyes up wide. "Well now, that's just crazy talk," I told him. That night, during the singing, I leaned over to him and whispered, "Hey. What you said earlier about Santa..." "Oh, that," he shrugged. "I didn't mean that." Whew.

So we're in line for Santa. The Girl has been talking for weeks about how she wants to sit on Santa's lap and have him hug her. You already know what happens when we get up to Santa, don't you? More with the banshee noises. So Monica's holding the Girl, and I'm holding her hand, and we're both telling her that it's okay, she doesn't have to sit on Santa's lap, he'll still know what she wants and bring her a present, no worries. We move out of line and wait for the Boy, eat a cookie, get ready to leave. The whole time, she's still sort of crying but also watching that Santa. And when we start to leave, she bursts into tears again and wails, "But I WANNA see Santa! I DO! I DO!" So I took her back into the line, and this time, she did it. She sat on that fat man's lap and grinned like a maniac.

Santa crises averted. Cards still not sent. Carpets clean. Yep, it's just about that time of year.

The last question

Took me long enough, eh?

The most excellent and True-Blue Semi-Cruncy Mama (what, there are more of us?) asks:

You know I love your blog. So, I was wondering, if you would consider adding mine to your blogroll the next time you update? That is, if you still like to come by mine?

To which I reply: I. Suck. At updating the blogroll, that is. I'm so sorry. You guys are so woderful, stopping by, and I just suck. But it's all better now! Because look! I have tidied up! And added people! And everything! (Did I leave anyone out?)

Thanks for your patience, y'all. Now, you get what I promised you.

(Oh, and Trisha? Yuh-HUNH!!!)

Ooooohhhhh, fuuuuuudge

Okay. The first thing you need to understand is that the Boy? He looks just like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story". If you put him in those glasses and cut his hair a bit differently, there you'd be. We used to laugh about it when he was younger, because he had a chubbier face and REALLY looked the part.

Second thing is that the Boy loves that movie. For some reason, he always begs to watch it. Okay, fine, I love it, too, and we own it, so last night we decided to watch. The Boy is asking all sorts of questions about things here and there, the bullies, the dad, the school, what's a "theme", so on, so forth. Then comes the infamous "fudge" scene. And as the narrator says, "Only I didn't say 'fudge'...", the Boy looks at me and says,

"What did he say? Fuckin'?"

"Uhhh," I say. "Yeah. Pretty much. But YOU don't say that."

"Don't say what? Fuckin'?"

"Yes."

Do I even need to tell you what he said then? A lot?

So by now, Ralphie is sitting there sucking on the Lifeboy, and I say to my Boy, "See what happens when little boys say rude words like that? You need to stop saying that, now, or I will have to wash out your mouth with soap!"

You should know that 1) I've never washed my kids' mouths out with soap, 2) I am not a corporal punisher in general, but 3) I went and got the soap anyway. This was a good plan in that he stopped saying "Fuckin" but a poor plan in that he stopped saying it because he went into hysterics and locked himself in his room. So then I'm trying to convince him to unlock the door and come talk to me, that I'm NOT actually standing there wielding soap, and all the time, the Girl is behind me, shouting, "Wash MY mouth with soap! I want to eat soap!! ME TOO, MAMA!!!"

This, folks, is why my life is like a very weird comedy directed by a very drunken person who makes strange casting choices.

Signs

Probably, if your son says to you (through his tears as he leans against you because his sister bit him because she didn't want to share her chair during the cookie-baking session), "Mom? Are you getting pregnant?"...

...it's time to lay off the Baileys. Ah, well.

Help the WASP Girl

Anybody got a killer recipe (and helpful instructions) for potatoe latkes? The Boy wants them. Assist, I beg of you!

Well, that's gotta hurt

The Boy: [seriously] Mom, you know what Tyler sang at me today? He sang, "Bo-oy, Bo-oy, sitting in a tree, K-S-S-S-I-O-P!"

Me: Oh he did, did he?

TB: Yes. He sang that bad song at me. K-S-S-S-I-O-P!!!

Me: Oh my.

[Pause]

Me: Well, if it makes you feel any better, sweetie, he got that song completely wrong. So you know, he didn't really say anything bad about you.

TB: Really?

Me: Really.

[wait for it]

TB: So...how's that song really go?

A Day in the Life

Well. That settles the question of whether I could do away with my Internet connection as part of my current budget-crunching crisis. Answer: NO.

As you might have guessed, the Internet left me for a few days. It must've found someone cuter. Probably that Jessica, with her new site and her darling laugh and her wonderful heart and her amazing courage and her BROTHER WHO IS THE VOICE OF SCOOBY DOO?! Jessica, we hardly knew thee. What next, you're going to drop the bomb that oh, Hugh Jackman happens to be your next door neighbor? And then we are coming to live with you forever and ever. Tell the husband now.

But in the meantime, perhaps it's better. I am the sort who needs clear leads from the Divine, in the order of a large neon arrow and a bouncer to point the way. Perhaps I am being directed to simplify my life? Could be. Things have just been...complicated. Okay, totally nutso crazy around here, happy now?

The stuff that keeps me from lying down in the middle of the boxes and drinking straight from the bottle:

The Girl, singing the "Namaste" song from the Yoga Kids ABC DVD, getting it mixed up with the other song she's trying to learn, wandering around the house tunelessly intoning, "Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Red nose!"

The Boy, when I told him that Miss Jessica's brother was Scooby Doo's voice, his eyes getting huger and huger: "Whoaaaaaano sir. That is so not true. Is it?" (Doubters everywhere, Jess!)

Last but not least, I give you the recipe for the Best Gingersnaps Ever. These are the ones my mom always makes. They are, she says, from the 1979 Southern Living cookbook. If you find them getting hard, put a piece of bread in with them to soften them up, though you shouldn't need to do.

1 cup sugar
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinamon
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 cup shortening (I use melted butter)
1/4 cup molasses
1 egg, slightly beaten
extra sugar

Preheat oven to 350 F.
Combine sugar, flour, salt, baking soda, and spices. Cut in shortening to course crumbs. Stir in molasses and egg.
Shape dough into 1" balls; roll in extra sugar. Place on ungreased baking sheets--don't flatten--and bake 8-10 minutes, watching carefully. Place on racks immediately.

Learning

It's going to be a busy day here chez SBFH. I'm sticking to my "not telling you the whole sordid tale until it's all over" thing, but I can give you this much detail: The new house will be ready in about a month, and arrangements for what to do with the old house have changed. So within that month, I need to pack the house, fix up several dings and whatnots, and sell the thing. Mm-hmm.

I am fortunate enough to have help in these endeavors. Today will be a busy day. Planned as the annual "Chica/Chica Cookie Baking Bonanza", it has morphed into the "Chica/Chica Sorta Cookie Baking But Mostly Thank You God That I Have A Best Friend Who Offers To Help Me Pack Things Oh How I Love Her Bonanza". (What's with the Chica/Chica you ask? Well, see, you all know her as the Chica, and she is the Chica, but so am I the Chica, if you were talking to her. Get it? A conversation between us would go thusly: "Yo, Chica." "Hiya Chica." "Everything groovy, Chica?" "Chicita, you know it is." See?) (And how do I make her my own? you are also probably asking. Ahhh, the luck of the gods is all I can say.)

Anyway. What was my point? Damn.

Oh. It's gonna be crazy! Crazy days ahead! That was it. But I am learning to be zen with it. And on top of that, the Boy has been learning, too. So many things. And I'll tell you all about it, cause I owe you a nice long talk about the Boy, and I owe it for him as well. But it won't be happening today.

Blog Against Racism Day

It's Blog Against Racism Day.

I was born in the South and lived there for the first 8 years of my life. In the absence of my father, my mother's family was the only family I knew. My people, my heritage, then, were that of my maternal grandparents. My grandfather's family came from Georgia; my grandmother's, from Kansas; anglo-saxon protestants, all. And here's what I was taught, those first 8 years:

• Black people are perfectly nice, but black people and white people should not marry or have any type of intimate relationship.
• Our ancestors owned slaves, and that was nothing to be particularly ashamed about.
• There is nothing odd about a grown man calling a little girl "Miss PK" so long as the man is black and girl is white.
• If you are white and you have black "help", and you are, say, polite to them, you are a pretty big person.

I look back on these "facts of life" and think, "What the fuck?"

It really is true that good can come out of bad. My mother's second marriage was abysmal, but one good thing that came of it was that we moved out of the South and that her husband showed me these lies for what they were, and are. Thank God, is all I can say. B

y the time I was 14, I was sufficiently deprogrammed enough to be absolutely disgusted by my aunt and uncle's determination to move out of their prestigious Mississippi neighborhood because an African-American was moving in, and my God, there goes the neighborhood. Do I think the levies in New Orleans were intentionally breached to eradicate the poor, African-American population of certain areas? No. But do I think those levies were allowed to fall into woeful disrepair because that population was so little valued by the political powers that be as to be off the radar? You bet I do.

I have driven through Mississippi and seen people living in shacks. I have heard my own blood relatives--educated, intelligent, morally upstanding people--argue with me that other human beings differ from me because of the color of their friggin' skin, argue that people are overly sensitive over the use of the word "nigger". There's no hate for them in that word, and that makes it all the more hateful. Ignorance is hateful to me. Blindness and fear and the wall we build that separates us from other human beings is hateful.

I had the privilege a few years ago of hearing Maya Angelou speak. I think that woman is one of those rare human beings that radiates wisdom. To be in a room with her is a spiritual experience. She quoted Terence: "I am a human being; nothing human can be alien to me." What do you do when you hear the vitriol that spews out now against illegal aliens (read: Mexicans), fanatics (read: Muslims), deviants (read: homosexuals)? There is only one argument. I am a human being. Nothing human--nothing--can be alien to me. Don't shake your head. Don't walk away. Don't keep the peace. Speak the truth. Refuse to back down. Refuse to stand by silently while more children are taught to fear and hate. Your silence will never be taken as disagreement, only as acquiescence. Be a human being instead.

Edited to point out--I hope it's clear that the labels in that last paragraph are slurs and bullshit?