hey, it's a living language

another new word coined by my offspring:

ge•ro•cious [guh-ROH-shuhs] 

– adjective

1. something both gross and ferocious
   
2. ferociously outsized in its grossness
   

as in, "wow, that's a gerociously big poo!" and it was.

related forms:

ge•ro•cious•ly, adverb

ge•ro•cious•ness, noun

funny how your perspective changes

i bet that christina crawford was a right little a**hole and poor joan got a bad wrap.

i don't know which is scarier

that while flipping through radio stations, i stopped on one playing pat benatar's "hit me with your best shot," or that when the song ended, i discovered i was listing to lite fm.

it's official:  i am old.

for those who have not reproduced

following is a list of activities, events and items that supposedly generate lovely, sugar-coated parent-and-child moments of bonding and snuggy-wuggums.

DO NOT BE FOOLED.

in reality, they annoy, enrage, exhaust, induce migraines, and lead to astonishingly frequent consumption of alcohol and chocolate. avoid them at all costs.

herewith, the top 10 reasons for renewing your birth control prescription today:

10. parades

9. christmas cookie decorating

8. pinatas

7. halloween

6. candyland

5. any disney movie

4. paints

3. nail polish (even the so-called fast-drying kind)

2. the sound of music

and number 1 with a bullet (i wish)... balloons

oh, how i hates the balloons.

mount olympus, extreme northwestern division

after not cooking anything really, well, good for the last three years in deference to food-allergy baby, today i made a batch of chocolate chip cookies (after purchasing some outrageously expensive vegan pretenders at whole foods yesterday for aforementioned baby).

and OH MY GOD. 

butter! 

butter and sugar and eggs and more sugar and more butter!

i was never one of those eat-the-raw-cookie-dough types, and what the hell was my problem? raw cookie dough is the food of the gods.

******

and a post script:

who eats HALF a fresh, warm chocolate chip cookie and throws away the rest? my kid, that's who. at least, my ob claimed she was my kid. i think a dna test is in order...

an open letter

to the dour, 60ish woman at last weekend's wiener dog races dressed all in baggy, drab brown clothes who leaned over during her pet trick segment to reveal her NEON PINK, PURPLE AND WHITE THONG underwear:

aiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! 

my eyes, lord, my eyes. i could have happily gone my whole life without seeing that, lady.

(and yes, i said wiener dog races. hurdles. sprints. and my favorite event, the sofa jump.)

um...howdy, neighbor

here's a disturbing item to see lying next to your neighbor's garbage can:  the empty packaging for a "soft-grip machete."

and now, time for a refreshing (meno)pause

ok, so i seem to have gone straight from breast feeding to hot flashes. (ah, the joys of being a "mature" mother, aka decrepit crone.) i got some books from the library, the first one of which, called ripe, basically sucks. here is the sole bit of useful advice i gleaned from it:

"if in doubt, smile, stand up straight, suck in your gut, and try to look like you've just had great sex."

there. now you don't have to read the book.

a venerable family tradition lives on

thing one has discovered a new-for-her delicacy, something beloved by her mama, gramma and great-gramma before her:  peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.

(before you say that, try one. seriously.)

and since you're reading blogs, try sarah palin's. 

my faith in humanity is restored

on the way home from the paint store, i ended up behind a big ol' slow-moving cadillac. doing seven miles under the speed limit. with a world war two license plate and a little wizened driver wearing a hat. 

and here's what his bumper sticker said:

obama '08

obamazen.com

well, god bless, sir.

just a typical afternoon at home

yep, nothing unusual here.

donna reed i ain't

here's what i had to offer the handsome man for dinner tonight:

• plain noodles
  
• "pasta salad" from an old family recipe consisting of pasta, chicken, thawed frozen peas, and mayo (and i upgraded from the original miracle whip)
  
• 3/4 of a tomato
  
• and a gently used piece of pizza
  

eureka

i have discovered the secret to potty training.

and it isn't a timer or m&ms or a portable potty.

it's an ipod and the new york times crossword and the figs of paradise martini at cafe maude, where the handsome man shipped me off to this evening. no one spoke to me for AN HOUR. it was glorious.

now off to do the pee pee-poo poo laundry.

love is...

accepting a handful of partially masticated gum.

(anyone can cozy up to a warm puppy.)

insanity is hereditary

you get it from potty training your children.

f*** me.

we have a winner

the mystery vegetable is...kohlrabi! (which wikipedia called sputniky, too.)

many thanks to my half-german friend who grew up eating her mutter's version (it's big in germany). she not only identified them but fixed them for lunch during a play date at my house today. here's how:

• peel and slice into french fry-size pieces
• steam/simmer in a little butter, olive oil and broth until fork tender (about 20-30 minutes)
• you can add minced parsley for looks when you serve, if you have it, which of course i do not

dee-licious. although cheetos would have been good, too.

help me out here

what are these?

they came in our farm share this morning. i have no idea if i should eat them or launch them into space orbit (kind of a sputnik-y vibe, no?). extra credit points if you can tell me how to prepare them...

big girl undies!

oh, the thrill of it all.

noooooo!

thing one:  "mommy, is that a bunch of cardinals in the tree across the street?"

me:  "where?"

thing one:  "there, in the top of that tree – see all that red?"

me:  (squint, study)  "those aren't cardinals – those are LEAVES THAT HAVE CHANGED COLOR! AHHHHHHH!"

such a pretty fascia

out on my walk this morning i passed a house in the neighborhood that's for sale. it's been listed for a while, so to help they've hung an extra sign on it that says:

i'm gorgeous inside!

aww. poor thing. it is kind of boxy and plain, but still. i wanted to write "and i have a great personality, too!" on the sign. maybe i'll swing by with a sharpie marker later today...

moo

i just received my new land's end bathing suit in the mail (unhorrible! and it actually creates the illusion of a bust!), and i noticed the tracking i.d. on it:  cow-2748.

cow. bathing suit. that is just all kinds of wrong.

it's braaaaaaat

oh god. remember the pat character on saturday night live? whiny, nasally, off-the-charts irritating?

yeah, that's what my baby has turned into. every request, every protest, every everything is a looong, draaawn-out whiiiiiiiine.

it's a good thing she's cute, or i'd leave her on somebody's doooorsteeeep and ruuuuuuuuun.

fungus or feebs?

i was chatting with another food allergy mama today, comparing theories on why so many kids (e.g., mine, hers) can't eat the stuff we all ate as kids.

she mentioned the notion that we keep potential allergens out of our kids' diets for too long compared to folks in other cultures, thus inadvertently setting our munchkins up for allergies.

i mentioned several wildly different ideas i've heard over the years:  

• the foods we eat aren't pure any more (wheat in vegetable soup, milk in bread, soy in everything)
  
• we've hand-sanitized ourselves so clean that our immune systems are turning on pb&j in lieu of germs
  
• foods have been genetically altered, which has f***ed us up
  
• peanuts, especially imported ones, might have some sort of fungus similar to the ergot – known as st. anthony's fire – that infested rye in the middle ages and sickened huge numbers of people
  

and then i threw out a little something i've come up with in my musing on this subjects:  we've breed a nation of feebs.

think about it:  we've lifted the forces of natural selection so that, instead of the strong surviving, pretty much everyone is surviving. 

case in point? moi. without the benefit of strong eyeglasses, midol and zoloft, i would have been lion lunch on the savanna. when i reproduced, i needed c-sections to get the kid out and then formula when she couldn't breast feed. 

homo erectus didn't have level 3 nicu's. ma ingalls didn't go to a high-risk pregnancy clinic, nor did her friend mrs. boast have access to in vitro, which is why she and her husband tried to get laura to trade her baby for one of their horses. (i may have read all the little house books over and over.)

we are so freaking lucky that we have so many ways to fend off death and disease, to create and extend life. but is the flip side that we're watering down our genes a little bit? or bending them into new forms that leave us vulnerable to new ills?

better than sea monkeys

mix giant influx of plants from master gardener friend (black-eyed susans, day lilies, salvia, evening primrose, and several lovely unpronounceables) with water, et voilà:  insta-garden! 

stuff is already blooming, and so far, i have not murdered anything. (always unintentional, but still – i think plants can smell fear.)

oh, and apparently not only do rabbits find alpine strawberries delicious, they also favor something that's called nigella. or was called nigella.

land ('s end) ho!

ladies, if you need a swimsuit (and it is only need that drives us to this fate, never just a desire to go out for a humiliating evening under the florescent lights), get thee to land's end.

last night at the local outlet, called an inlet (ha. cute. not.), i super scored by finding a suit that:

• fits
  
• is comfortable
  
• looks unhorrible
  
• and cost THIRTY DOLLARS (originally $86!)
  

and if you order from the catalog while in the store:  no shipping charges, and returns can be returned at the store free, too. so another cheap, black, hopefully acceptable suit is winging its way to me as i write.

(oh, and if you are a size 4 or a size 18, you have a choice of pretty much every product land's end makes. those of us in between need to hunt and peck. and premedicate.)

call child protective services

here's a conversation i'm glad no one else overheard:

2-year-old:  "i don't like rum."

4-year-old:  "you don't like rum?! rum is what mommy and daddy have in dark and stormies! you've had sips of those."

2-year-old:  "oh."

4-year-old:  "i love rum."

with a tune in my heart

i may have caved on refined sugar and thomas the tank engine dvds, but i've held firm on allowing noxious children's "music" to seep into our lives. driving in the car with two children under age 5 is bad enough; driving with them while listening to "i'm a little teapot" would make me commit a felony.

so it warmed my mother's heart today when my kids requested music by semisonic. here are other favorites:

• lily allen
  
• herbie hancock
  
• digable planets
  
• the ramones
• frankie goes to hollywood (hey, i never said my musical tastes were good; i just said no children's music)

sartorial selections

i used to pick out my clothes based on a number of factors:  did the colors look good on me? were the pants a flattering cut? did the outfit create the vaguest illusion of a waist for my hershey bar-shaped body?

here is the sole criterion for today's clothing choices:  what don't i care if my kid barfs on. again.

things my children have argued about today

• what months their imaginary company, lampy, takes off for summer vacation
  
• the middle names of their new stuffed kitties
  
• how many limes each could put in the bag at target
  

and now one of those limes is going right in my cocktail...

mommy's night out

thanks to my cousin casey for making up this recipe (and for making me one).

mommy's night out:

• pear vodka
  
• pomegranate juice
  
• fresca (ah, fresca)

proportions are fluid (ha ha), depending on how mommy's day has been.

oh happy day

thing two has learned how to swing by herself. 

i remember when thing one reached this particular milestone:  how proud i was of her, how splendid i thought she was.

now my overwhelming thought is, "good – now i can finally sit on my butt instead of pushing that damn swing."

button up your overcoat

when the wind is free,

take good care of yourself,

you belong to me.

today was one of those quintessential minnesota summer days:  high 80's, pristine blue sky, feathery breeze. i took things one and two to goggle at the city's gorgeous rose garden, then swung by a playground, and then hit the beach at the lake nearest our house (about 5 minutes away; when it's not frozen here, minneapolis is actually quite nice).

the water was absolutely clear – we could see every sand ripple on the bottom all the way out to the edge of the swimming area. a finger-sized fish took to us and swam in tight circles around and around and around our bodies. the girls dribbled handfuls of wet sand through their fingers.

eat an apple every day,

get to bed by three,

oh take good care of yourself,

you belong to me.

a dozen or so yards from us was another mom with two little kids, twins about a year and a half old. they were also playing in the sand and the water. only these kids didn't feel the squish between their toes or the splash on their legs, because they were wearing long-sleeved, full-torso, full-pant swim suits. WITH FEET. like this. like a sleep suit for the water. and the lawrence of arabia sun hats, to boot. like this, only they wrapped even more around the sides.

wear your flannel underwear

when you climb a tree,

take good care of yourself,

you belong to me.

now. i freely admit that i am one of the bigger freaks about safety when it comes to my kids. examples are legion, so trust me on this – i'm more neurotic than the average bear. and far be it for me to criticize another's parenting "style" (and this was a style, not because of any medical/skin condition, as the friendly, self-described nervous first-time mom volunteered). 

but COME ON. i mean, i've joked about wrapping my kids in bubble wrap, but i haven't actually DONE it. especially at the beach, fer crying out loud! why even bother bringing the poor little tykes there, when the only parts of them exposed to the glorious elements were their tiny mitts (ah! hand cancer! ahhhh!). what a horrible tease for a little boy and girl (at least that's my best guess, based on the colors of the cutest little hazmat suits in the world).

note to self:  don't so protect own children from the world that i completely keep them from experiencing the world.

keep away from bootleg hooch

when you're on a spree,

oh take good care of yourself,

you belong to me.

the great chefs of the world

probably don't have to contend with their diners falling out of trees during meal preparation.

things my children have argued about today

• the colors of the imaginary signs in our kitchen that say "clean the wood" and "don't clean the wood"
  
• whether nana, who works at their imaginary company named lampy, is the big sister of lala, who also works at lampy (and yes, lampy makes lamps)
  
• who is 2-1/2 and who is 4-1/2 (a reprise of an old standard)
  

kitchen science

here's a fun experiment anyone can try at home!

• take one unopened gallon of milk that has been lingering in your house since before vacation
  
• open it and observe cream-like substance on top
  
• decide to recap milk and shake it to mix cream-like substance into the milk
  
• reopen and discover that fermenting, vaguely blue cheese-smelling former milk is pressurized and will explode all over you, your clothing, your appliances, and your floor!
  

it's the bitch of the day

with the bitch of the day:

apparently, july 11 was declared "bikini day at pershing pool" without my knowledge. who ARE these women who can suit up so skimpily after having kids and still look good?! haaaate them.

runway, milan, 2023

thank god she got daddy's legs.

threat level: red

so i get everyone up, dressed, in the cab, to the airport, and through security without incident and in a timely manner.

all that remains is a quick trip to the biffy before boarding, and of course - of course! - auntie flo shows up. of course.

and of course, my four-year-old is with me in the matchbook-sized stall. don't want her to see the crime scene (that could be life scarring), so i quick invented the feet game. as in, "hey, baby, you stand outside the potty and dance, and i'll see if i can see your feet! doesn't that sound like fuuun?!"

lots of ibuprofen and coca-cola later, and all is well. there have been no other tragedies, and the girls are having a ball cavorting in grampa's pool and eating hot dogs and fries on his dime. next up? a trip to the toy store, where grampa will give them free rein. (grampa purports to be my father, but i think the aliens abducted that guy and replaced him with a remarkable facsimile, because i don't remember any toy store rampages from MY childhood.)

best line of the trip so far

"do we need to take the stroller?"

no, honey. i'm sure we'll be fine moving through two of the country's busiest airports with four suitcases, four big carry-ons, two car seats, and unharnessed 2- and 4-year-olds.

and we haven't even left yet...

not lazy, perhaps hazy, and certainly crazy days of summer

so we're getting ready to head out of state for a big family reunion. here are my to do's so far (making the master list is the first to do):

• stop the mail
  
• stop the newspaper
  
• arrange for our lawn to be mowed
  
• drop off keys with a friend
  
• pay the bills
  
• renew library books so we don't get fined while we're gone
  
• wash everyone's entire wardrobe
  
• pack enough clothes, bathing suits and shoes for two little girls for a week and a half (did i mention the places we're staying have no washer and dryer?)
  
• pack my stuff
  
• pack toiletries for me and the girls
• renew and pack everyone's prescription medicines
  
• pack non-prescription medicines (zyrtec, scar cream, eye patches, etc.)
  
• fill out i.d. bracelets for the girls to wear while traveling in case they get lost
  
• buy and pack (allergy-free!) snacks
  
• pack toys, books and lovies for the girls
  
• pack travel dvd player and dvds
  
• make a list of stuff to buy once we're there (diapers, wipes, swim diapers, etc.)
  
• determine if grocery stores near reunion site carry soy milk 
  
• locate hospital nearest reunion site
  
• locate laundromat nearest reunion site
• set light timers at home
  
• clean out the fridge
• arrange for a taxi to the airport
  
• find straps to turn the booster seat back into an airplane-legal car seat
  

here's what my husband will do:

• pack his bag
  

cupcakes

by popular (one) request, here is the vegan chocolate cupcake recipe. don't be fooled by the vegan part – these things taste guuuuuuud. all hail isa chandra and her awesome vegan cupcakes take over the world cookbook!

your basic chocolate cupcake

makes 12 cupcakes

ingredients

• 1 cup soy milk
  
• 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
  
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
  
• 1/3 cup canola oil
  
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  
• 1/2 teaspoon almond extract, chocolate extract, or more vanilla extract (i use vanilla)
  
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
  
• 1/3 cup cocoa powder, dutch-processed or regular
  
• 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
  
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
  

directions

1. preheat oven to 350 degrees F and line a muffin pan with paper or foil liners.
   
2. whisk together the soy milk and vinegar in a large bowl and set aside for a few minutes to curdle.
   
3. in a separate bowl, sift (really – get a sifter; it makes a difference) together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
   
4. add the sugar, oil and vanilla extract, and other extract if using, to the soy milk mixture and beat until foamy.
   
5. add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients in two batches and beat until no large lumps remain (a few tiny ones are ok).
   
6. pour into liners, filling three-quarters of the way. 
7. bake 18 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center of a cupcake comes out clean.
   
8. transfer to cooling rack and let cool completely before...

frosting

ingredients (note:  this is half the recipe; i find it's plenty for a dozen cupcakes)

• 1/4 cup shortening
  
• 1/4 cup margarine 
  
• 1-3/4 cups confectioners' sugar
  
• 3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
  
• 1/8 cup plain soy milk or soy creamer

directions

1. beat the shortening and margarine until well combined and fluffy.
   
2. add the sugar and beat about 3 more minutes.
   
3. add the vanilla and soy milk, and beat for another 5 to 7 minutes until fluffy. if you want to color the frosting, add food coloring near the end of beating.
   

house of lard

in the past two days, i have made two new kinds of cupcakes, and the ladies and i have been listening to christmas carols incessantly.

we're confused. but happy.

[insert stunned silence here]

i just completely threw a woman conducting a phone survey. she wanted to ask me questions about potential television shows, and i told her we don't have a working t.v. and haven't for almost a year.

i'm fairly certain no one has ever said that to her before, judging by the long pause, slow intake of breath, and "whooookay!" i got.

celeblogties and other random thoughts

celeblogties

i think the blogosphere has fused celebrity gazing and reality programing, at least for me. i get a little thrill when i see that wendi aarons has commented on one of my posts, or when i run into morgan from fatgrrl.com walking around the lake. it's like that us magazine section come to life:  they really DO whine and chafe and sag and snarl. i feel so glamorous!

goth picnic

goth is tough look to pull off in the summer. works great during a minneapolis winter, but black hair/pasty face/black shirt/pasty arms/black shorts/pasty legs/black socks says "i need a blood transfusion!" more than "i am part of a vaguely unsettling counterculture!"

freaky tuesday

the couple i just saw out for a walk scared me. preface:  it is a gorgeous summer day, the kind of perfection that makes minnesotans weep with joy and stop muttering about relocating to albuquerque. so why were betty and bud strolling along in long pants, hooded long-sleeved jackets, and hats? is there some sort of freak june cold front rolling in that i don't know about? it reminds me a billion for boris, the awesome sequel to freaky friday, where ape face finds a television that broadcasts tomorrow's news and thus remains toasty warm during a surprise blizzard while his sister freezes and – even worse – ruins her new leather boots.

recorders 

my husband found the recorders he and one of his brothers played as kids. remember recorders? those cheap, tuneless first instruments? those little spindles of shrillness that, in the hands of novices, produce only one sustained note so high you can actually feel your butt clench?

he gave them to our children.

oh dear god

my four-year-old just said the words "hannah montana."

the pain only a mother knows

i just stepped on a lincoln log. jesus god. went down like a tranqed rhino.

where is that large automobile?

i was very nearly run off the road tonight by a big ol' cadillac ass-calade. um, hello? i'm in a minivan; it's not like i have a cloaking device. 

crouching preschooler, hidden pull-up

the shortest interval of time that has ever been measured is 100 attoseconds – a billion billionths of a second. the measurement was achieved by professor ferenc krausz and other researchers at the vienna university of technology.

professor krausz has preschoolers.

i don't know this for sure, but i'd be willing to bet on it. because i, too, have experienced the shortest interval of time. only in our house, it's called "the time between pulling josie out of the tub and her shrieking that she's cooooold." seriously, she's not even all the way out of the water when this starts.

and because she's cooooold, she refuses to drop towel while getting dressed. so instead, she spreads her towel-clad arms out for balance and stands, flamingo-like, on one skinny leg while holding up her other foot for me to cram into her pull-up. it's very martial-arts-meets-hello-kitty, until her foot catches on the towel edge while pushing through the pull-up leg opening and we both fall ass over tea kettle. 

in today's news

"astronauts to fix international space station's broken toilet."

and i thought my seven years of higher education were a bit of an over qualification for my job as a hausfrau.

apparently i've given birth to alexa p. keaton. twice.

the ladies and i got our usual ziggurat of books out of the library last week, and we've been enjoying click, clack, moo:  cows that type and giggle, giggle, quack. 

they are dryly funny books about overly smart farm animals that cause trouble for farmer brown, like when the cows find an old typewriter and begin leaving notes saying they won't give any more milk until they get some electric blankets.

it never occurred to me to side with anyone other than the poor, chilly bovines until my girls started on this tirade:

thing two:  "those cows are bad!"

thing one:  "yeah! they're bad, and they're mean!"

thing two:  "yeah! mean!"

thing one:  "they should give the farmer milk!"

thing two:  "yeah!"

geez. i guess they're ready for careers in management.

but i play a marketing expert on my blog

i think somebody needs to have a little talk with the folks at jc penney. the father's day promo i received today says:

today's the day to give him what he really wants...

the jc penney gift card!

i'm gonna go out on a limb and say that, oh, maybe sex is what most men really want. and i don't think you can get that with a penney's gift card.

crabby old lady is crabby about...

bikers

minneapolis is lousy with bike paths. the park board maintains more than 43 miles of designated biking paths around city's lakes and along its creeks. nearly six miles of converted railway line extend across the city's center for bikers. there are many bike lanes in, to and from downtown, and a whopping 82 miles of off-street trails.

so why do i always end up driving behind some tour de france wannabe who insists on riding in the street? 

i understand when there is no other option, like for the two gentlemen i followed home the other evening (after 10 pm, in the dark, at about 8 miles per hour, slowly, sloooowly) on a road with no bike lane.

but when i am driving around lakes that are ringed with bike paths? lovely, paved, scenic paths just for you? why, sir, do you instead choose to ride in the road in front of me, turning to glare at me from beneath your helmet when you bob your arms up and down to signal your turns, or muttering at me as i (carefully, carefully) pass you?

i'm driving a minivan, lance ass-strong. that means i outweigh you by about, oh, 4,100 pounds. and it's my road; your path is 10 feet that-a-way. are you just arrogant? or do you have some sort of thin-the-herd death wish?

oh, and the next time you YELL AT ME as i open my van door when i'm parked legally on a minneapolis street and you nearly rip my door off as you speed by? bring it.

women's clothing manufacturers

4 6 7 8 9 10

my winning lottery numbers? hardly.

i recently rolled over and accepted that my pre-maternity clothes will remain just that. the old gray mare ain't what she used to be. and, as i've moved into my 40s, i've discovered that my body parts are following the general migration trend of the country's residents:  all heading south.

so i trundled off for some new stuff. got the basic mommy wardrobe of shorts, cargo pants, jeans and tee shirts, as well as some new jammies for good measure. and i discovered that, apparently, i have some sort of fun-house body that morphs as i move from aisle to aisle, because the clothes i got were all of the sizes listed above, plus xs, s, m, and l just to make things interesting. 

and, with the exception of the jeans, the clothes are all from the same place:  target (or tar-jhay boo-teek, as we in the miniapple call it). how is it even possible that i can wear a 4 pants and a 10 shorts in the exact same in-house brand?! (merona.) hate you, isaac mizrahi.

global warming

it was 40 degrees when i went for a walk this morning. i could probably have seen my breath, if my eyes hadn't been watering so much. 

global warming, my fat fanny. where can i git me some?

i'm too sexy for my baggy, sweat-stained t-shirt

here are some of the exciting ways the handsome man and i memorialized this holiday weekend:

• pruning bushes and trees
  
• scraping and recaulking the tub
  
• shoveling four yards of dirt across our property
  
• seeding the lawn
  
• scrubbing the kitchen floor on hands and knees
  
• taking down storm windows and putting up screens
  
• mowing the lawn
  
• weeding
• planting herbs
• doing six loads of laundry
  
• purchasing a weather radio, two emergency flashlights, and two first aid kits (one for home, one for car) now that tornado season is upon us

and yet, all this was mitigated by that great spring tonic:  rhubarb pie. there are some things to be said for living in minnesota.

the breakfast of whining, gasping, pms-ing losers

• 2 advil
  
• 1-1/2 zoloft
  
• 1 children's multivitamin
  
• 2 cups strong tea

hey, the world has enough champions.

the horror

i do not have high standards when it comes to food.

that is not to say i am not picky or high-maintenance, both of which i decidedly am. no olives, no artichokes, no coconut. nothing that bleeds on my plate or makes eye contact. no hard or soft eggs (hidden in a breakfast quesadilla is about all i can stomach). and dear god, no mollusks, crustaceans or other sea bugs.

but i'm pretty much an omnivore when it comes to junky food, white trash food, and snicky snacks of all kinds. when i'm feeling nostalgic for home, i might whip up an american cheese food sandwich with miracle whip, or a peanut butter-mustard-and-pickle sandwich. (stop that. it's good. and how do you know if you've never tried it, sam-i-am?)

however, tonight i discovered the point at which even i must draw a line in the cool whip. as i was breaking into some chocolate graham crackers (yum!), i saw this on the side of the box:

introducing new easy cheese original cream cheese pasteurized cheese snack!

now you can have the great taste of cream cheese with all the fun of easy cheese. easy cheese original cream cheese can be found in the cracker aisle next to all of your other favorite easy cheese varieties.

spray cream cheese. spray cream cheese that needs no refrigeration. i'm pretty sure that is what the four horsemen of the apocalypse will be snacking on when they come.

i would rather work the fryer at mcdonald's until i'm 100

the ladies and i just returned from an a-1 outing to one of st. paul's bestest and kid-friendliest places, como zoo & conservatory. we steeped ourselves in warm sunshine. we saw giraffes and seals and lions and even (gasp!) reindeer, though probably not, we concluded, santa's reindeer ("but maybe they know him!"). we ate our sandwiches and apples while watching flamingos fight ("maybe they're sisters!"). i bought each girl a bomb pop roughly the size of a sexual device or one of those long knit tubes you put in front of doorways to keep out winter drafts. (and amazingly, they consumed nearly all of them; if i hadn't had them strapped in the stroller, i think they would have started levitating from the sugar high.)

and then, to top it all off, we paid our first-ever visit to the carousel, an enormous 1914 masterpiece with four rows of gorgeously restored horses, lights, mirrors...and a huge wurlitzer band organ.

or, as i now think of it, satan's own glockenspiel.

omfg, was that thing loud. i felt like the grinch being driven to distraction by the whoville residents and all their noise, noise, noise, NOISE! and i'm kind of a deaf old bat from misspending my teens and 20's in bars and clubs, pressed up close to the amps with the beat of a bass guitar pulsing up and down my spine. 

indeed, the carousel's promoters themselves give a shout-out (sorry) to the noise on their website:

why is it so loud?

you may notice as you walk through como park that you can often hear the music before you see the carousel. band organs were designed to be loud in order to attract the public to the carousel. the loud music also helps mask some of the mechanical noises of the ride.

which makes total sense, and is tolerable for the 10-minute ride, slightly less so for the 15 minutes spent waiting in line prior to the ride.

but how about ALL FREAKING DAY?

because the carousel is staffed by volunteers, all of whom appeared to be retirees, and all of whom were sporting airport grounds crew-quality earplugs. (and, perhaps not coincidentally, all of whom were rather grim-faced and cheerless.)

now, i am all for volunteer work; i've done a bunch of different kinds. and i get that many retirees want to stay connected to the work world, like my in-laws whose understanding of "retirement" apparently translates to "go back to your old job, only less often."

but i know that it would only take me a couple of days – one week tops – on the carousel crew before i would become completely unhinged and start trying to shoot the wooden horses. perhaps another, quieter form of retirement should be in my future.

oh, and if you're looking for a super father's day gift, the carousel sells a recording of its band organ tunes! apparently, the carousel pavilion's steel surfaces offer little in the way of sound absorption, so the reverb in the place amplifies the music and creates a "nice effect," though it does "make it a little hard to hear someone speak."

or scream.

etymology lesson for the day

is it called cocktail hour because you want to cold-cock one kid and swat the other on the tail?

mom dialing

my friends and i are now securely past the age of drunk dialing (calling up a current/ex/prospective boyfriend when intoxicated).

but sadly, phone faux pas continue, because we have entered the age of mom dialing. that's when your brain is so addled by child bearing/rearing that you make unintended calls. i submit as evidence:

• my best friend just called me and said, "oh, i wasn't trying to call you, i was trying to call my sister (who happens to be my other best friend)."
  
• i've called one of them, intending to call the other, on several (ok, many) occasions.
  
• i've called myself more than once (cell if i'm at home, and vice versa) trying to reach friend a or friend b.
  
• and i've phoned people and by the time they've picked up, i've already forgotten who i've called ("oh, hi...you!").

so remember, don't breed and dial.

doin' time in solitary

so i took thing one to the dentist the other day. at 4-1/2, she's a veteran; she started going at age 3 when she fell on her face so hard, her tooth and gum turned gray and we were told the tooth might be abscessing. mercifully, it was not. and since we took her to a children's dentist, it was all fun and kites and stickers and picking out presents at the end. 

since then, she's been every six months, which at her age is practically a geologic time period:  a vague, misty era waaaaay back beyond memory.

so when i told josie it was time for another visit, i reminded her of the fun, fun, fun that was in store. i must have really sold it, because she told people, "i get to go to the dentist tomorrow!" (did i mention i used to work in public relations?)

now, josie is a bit, shall we say, dramatic. think of e.t. running around waving his hands in the air, and you get a pretty good mental picture of how she reacts to anything she deems traumatic:  immunizations, thunder and lightening, running out of goldfish crackers, being unable to locate a desired ball, mommy wanting to pee before sitting down to read 14,000 children's books aloud, life.

i try to be sympathetic, because she comes by it honestly. when i was a kid, woe was me. my aunt called me sarah bernhardt because of my penchant for histrionics, and my mom would narrow her eyes and hiss, "i hope you get one just like you." 

in my defense, i tended more toward the sullen and sulky kind of dramatics:  slumping through the house, glowering, and slamming doors. which i'm sure was incredibly annoying, but at least not terribly loud.

josie, however, likes to get her shriek on. the moment she sat in the dentist's chair, she started to rev up. chair going up and leaning back? shriek. teeny mirror inserted in mouth to count teeth? shriek. brushing with bubble gum-flavored toothpaste and tiny, tickly brush? shriek. flossing? double shriek.

the climax came with the fluoride treatment. when the handsome man and i were kids, we later reminisced, this involved sitting with trays of revolting goo in your mouth for what seemed like days, not daring to move a muscle lest said goo trickle down your throat and make you retch. when it was finally over, you were sternly warned not to eat or drink for about a month or the fluoride wouldn't work and you'd have to do it all again.

wanna know how they do fluoride now? they paint it on the teeth with the world's eentsiest brush in about 10 seconds, and that's it. as soon as the saliva hits it, you can eat or drink. 

but josie couldn't care less if my teeth walked 10 miles uphill both ways to school when i was a kid. to her, the fluoride treatment was very deliberately designed to kill her. my god, the screams! she sounded like a medieval saint being martyred in some odd and gruesome way. and since the dentist's office is set up as a big, open space with many chairs for many kids, the sound it did a-travel.

when the appointment was all over (15 minutes tops; seemed like an hour), the girls played with toys in the waiting room while i talked to the gal at the future appointments desk. i mentioned that thing two will need to be seen next time as well, since she'll be 3 by then. "the hygienist said i could schedule the two appointments at the same time, and the girls could sit next to each other," i said.

"hmm," she replied. "it says here they want to see josie in the 'quiet room' next time. did she have some trouble today?"

yep, she's going in the hole. being thrown in the box. visiting the pound. being given the shoe. doing time in solitary. 

cue the harmonica.

p.s. in fairness to josie, i probably should mention that when i was a kid, i once locked myself in my dentist's bathroom for an hour and refused to come out. and in fairness to me, this was the same dentist who once DRILLED MY TONGUE because he was too busy flirting with his hygienist to pay attention to the job at hand. jerk.

the four food groups

as a mother, on this mother's day, i feel it is my duty to remind you about the four food groups:

• chocolate
  
• peanut butter
  
• cheese
  
• bacon
  

i have yet to come across a food or dish that would not be improved by the addition of one or more of these essentials.

who needs a food pyramid when you can become a pyramid? is what i say.

playgroup

want to make get-togethers with other parents and wee ones more fun? try a playgroup! 

no, not that kind. i'm talking about playgroup, the drinking game, as described in the book inconsolable:  how i threw my mental health out with the diapers. (it's a lot funnier than it sounds. really.) here's how you do it...

the playgroup:

• two parts knudsen hibiscus cooler [editor's note: or whatever]
  
• one part inexpensive vodka
  
• one part pedialyte, any flavor (to prevent dehydration and extend play)
  

mix ingredients together in a small sippy cup (preferably two-handled). add ice cube and shake vigorously; serve.

rules of play:

players who do not have a sippy cup available will automatically pick up a two-drink penalty and must consume their beverage from whatever receptacle is handy (e.g., sports bottle, neti pot, oral syringe, dirty ashtray, athletic shoe).

if a grown-up uses the word "poopy," that person drinks.

if a child uses the word "poopy," everyone drinks.

all drink if a child asks to nurse (with or without words).

all drink if a child is learning how to use the potty (once for each child).

all drink if a child takes a toy from another child.

finish your glass if your child is the thief.

all drink every time a child cries.

finish your glass every time a mother or father cries.

all drink whenever a box of baby wipes is opened.

drink twice whenever you eat a snack intended for a child (e.g., graham crackers, arrowroot cookies, zwieback toast).

all drink when the following topics are raised:

• frequency of sexual relations
  
• pornography/the sex industry
  
• reliable automobiles
  
• real estate (including neighborhood comparisons)
  
• recipes
  
• religion (including wicca and earth-worship)
  
• movies
  
• cable-access television
  
• hair color
  
• job hunting
  
• dogs/puppies
  
• preschool
  

drink twice if:

• the recipes are vegan or wheat-free.
  
• recipes are actually exchanged.
  
• anyone has had sexual relations in the past 48 hours.
  
• anyone's car is in the shop.
  
• a borrowed object is returned.
  

finish your glass if:

• your child vomits or defecates explosively (sufficient to cause staining outside the diaper).
  
• a child hits another child with an implement of any nature (e.g., shape-sorting cube, umbrella, machete).
  

the prettiest little ugly american

you never realize how much stuff you have until you move.

the ridiculous clothes you've been hanging on to. the old electronics. the unnecessary end tables. the sports equipment. the cutlery, dinnerware, pots and pans. 

the pink corvette.

barbara millicent roberts, you've got it all. and i just schelped it all upstairs.

yes, the barbie dream mcmansion has been relocated from the basement to the upstairs playroom. this was not my idea, but thing one pleaded. pleeeeeeaded. so while she packed barbie's extensive wardrobe, i lugged up the house (complete with elevator!), the car, the camping van, and the horse and stable. (the carriage and the other horse will remain downstairs; perhaps a parade is in the offing?)

it's like traveling with a miniature paris hilton. and the fashions! i mean, really. barbie is pushing 50 now; she ought to retire the skin-tight pedal pushers and mesh bikini. tramp.

at least i didn't pay for any of this stuff. (thanks, peg!) that's more than poor conrad hilton can say.

it turns the stomach

otto von bismarck must not have had daughters.

because if he had, i'm confident that the late prime minister of prussia would not have said that it's best to avoid seeing how laws and sausages are made. he would have said laws, sausages, and tea parties with cocoa in all the wee pots, cups, saucers, creamers and sugar bowls.

ye gods.

this may put me off chocolate for at least a few hours.

attention new recruits

the following is the official mom wardrobe for spring/summer 2008, as evidenced by scientific research (meaning what i and every other woman on every playground i've been to are wearing):

• cargo pants, preferably dark or drab color to hide dirt (though i do have an orange pair, too!)
  
• sturdy t-shirt, possibly with cute/snarky words and images
• zip-front hoodie sweatshirt
  
• ankle-high socks
• easily removed tennies (slip ons, velcro, etc.)
  
• sunglasses
  
• hat (optional; depends on if you're still trying to con your kids into wearing them)
  

this is the only sanctioned uniform. however, exceptions may be made for flip-flops, head scarves, and cargo shorts. 

please note that this wardrobe works equally well for dads, though their tees tend to favor college/sports/beer logos. other than than, we look like the stepford p.t.a.

and on a related mommying note – to the 6-foot-tall, disastrously pregnant amazon i saw emerging from a mini cooper at target:  sweetie, i admire your perseverance, but it's time to trade in for a minivan, or at least something that's not a clown car.  you're going to need the jaws of life to pry you out of your vehicle in about, oh, two days. tops.

daisy assassin

i hate gardening. haaaaate it. 

i like looking at the green stuff. but tending to it is a pain in my petunia. gardening is hot, sweaty, dirty, back ache-inducing work, and i emphasize the word work. it's like choosing to be a field hand in my leisure time.

and the payoff is...more work. more weeds, more watering, more pruning, more scratches, more bug bites, more heat, sweat, dirt and aches. the stuff just keeps growing, no matter how much you whack it back. have you ever tried to eradicate a grape vine? you can't, nor can you kill day lilies. i've tried.

i don't mean to sound sniffy, but this is a hobby for the mentally deficient. "the jenny vee memorial garden for the slow," my husband calls it. it's kind of like camping, which is also stooopid. why would i go out of my way to sleep on rocks and pee outside? didn't my ancestors spend millions of years evolving so i could have running water and body pillows and great lash mascara? 

similarly, why would i want to "relax" by working like a peasant woman in the potato fields when i could be sitting with my feet up, lemonade in hand, doing the sunday crossword? or napping? isn't this why the gentry used to have serfs?

and now i must go pluck pine needles from my flesh. (i just removed the christmas tree toppers from our window box. hey, it snowed last week – they still looked plausible.)

by any means necessary

achieving civil justice.

and getting 2-year-old and 4-year-old girls dressed for the day.

a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down

or skittles.

hey, bribery works.

oh m'darlin, oh m'darlin, oh m'darlin clementine

necessity is the mother of invention. i am the mother of a toddler and a preschooler. i am also out of limes.

but i wasn't going to let that stand in between me and a cocktail. so instead of having a cosmo, i squeezed a clementine and voilà:  a new drinkie poo is born. 

the oh m'darlin

• 1-1/4 oz vodka
  
• 3/4 oz triple sec
  
• 1-1/4 oz cranberry juice
  
• juice of one clementine
  
• splash of rose's lime juice
  

shake all over ice. delish.

houdini

here's an idea for all you preschool teachers out there:  why don't you give your charges a puzzle with all different kinds of locks for them to learn how to bust through? i'm talking sliding bar locks, twist locks, hook-and-eye locks, sliding chain locks – the works. 

WTF?!

our four-year-old doesn't need any help disarming locks, thanks. this is the child we nicknamed "houdini" at age two when she figured out how to unlatch the carabiner-style gate hooks. we had to resort to padlocking each of our three backyard gates to keep her penned up. it took this child 20 minutes to figure out how to pop the fridge lock we installed (i had more trouble with it than her). when we moved into our new house, we had to replace the flip locks on the front and back doors because she kept "helping" us open them (the new locks are keyed, natch). 

"next year maybe they teach them safe cracking," the handsome man said. i'm hoping for hot-wiring; probably more job opportunities in that. 

sheesh.

it was a dark and stormy tantrum hour

actually, it's just drizzling and chilly, but never mind – the handsome man and i recently discovered the cocktail that will see us through the summer. i heartily recommend it:

the dark and stormy

• pack a highball glass with ice
  
• add 1-1/2 oz (or a titch more) dark bermuda rum, like gosling's.
  
• squeeze in the juice from several lime wedges, running the last one around the rim and tossing it in the glass
  
• fill the glass with ginger beer (the stuff from bermuda, like barritts, is preferred over the jamaican kind; thank you, mr. internet)
  
• reeeeelax

the pain only a woman knows

yes, i'm talking about trying to find a pair of jeans.

(not to be confused with the other pains only women know, like growing out your bangs, having a baby, or shopping for a bathing suit.)

over the past two weeks, i have ordered five – five! – different styles of jeans from gap.com and oldnavy.com in the vain quest for something that:  a) fits b) is comfortable and c) looks even vaguely acceptable. 

why don't i go to the stores and try them on, you ask? why, because they don't carry petites in the stores, of course. (we are too short to reach the counter to pay? our money is too small? what?) thank god for free shipping and returns.

i've tried gap's classic boot cut, new boot cut, and long and lean (ironically, the best fitting of the bunch). i've tried old navy's "goddess" (the renamed high-waisted mom jeans) and "sweetheart" styles (almost as high and mom-like; old navy's marketing people are geniuses). i've tried curvy fit, straight fit, and stretch denim.

and the verdict is? they all suck rocks. which, coincidentally, is what my ass looks like in them.

so back they go. i'll try again next fall. fortunately, i went through the pain only women know part 5:  shorts shopping last summer, so i'm good for a new months.

"mama, come look at my giant poo!"

file under:  phrases i never knew i'd hear.

as my brother, a father of three, says, "this wasn't in the brochure."

one fish, two fish, red fish, eeeeww fish

one fish

i bought a bathing suit the other day. like other naughty substances in our culture – sex toys, prescription drugs for maladies you don't have – bathing suits are best purchased over the internet, from the privacy of your own home. landsend.com is my preferred pusher, as they sell many suits with skirts, shorts, cover-ups, etc. i'm waiting for the full-body cocoon model; hopefully it will be out soon.

in the meantime, i opted for the all-over control lingerie slender swim dress. first and most important, it was on sale. and second, the name (or at least parts of it) and the picture evoked thoughts of a floaty, feminine little number that would rustle delightfully in the breeze while still covering my hindquarters and drumsticks.

instead, what arrived was a garment made of fabric so thick, tough and unyielding you could bury a man at sea in it. it weighs about five pounds, and i feel like mother russia storming the beach in it – the proletariat goes for a dip. but it looks ok and achieves my prime directive in swim wear:  COVER THAT SHIT UP.

two fish

alas, the same cannot be said for all of my fellow minnesotans. the handsome man and i took thing one and thing two to the water park of america last weekend. yee gods, i have never seen so much of  so many pale, pasty, corn-fed folks. aiiiiiie!

and it's april. that means we are just coming off of six months' hibernation, when all the world sees of you are your eyes and ice-encrusted lashes and there's not much incentive to lay off the cheetos. apparently, that is no deterrent to bikini purchases, or backless/sideless/nearly frontless bathing suits, or skin-tight bicycle shorts. oh, the humanity!

it's not that i am less pale, pasty or corn-fed than my compatriots; it's that i COVER THAT SHIT UP so that i won't permanently scar their eyeballs. even the handsome man, who almost never says anything bad about anyone (why did i marry him?), muttered, "i think that's illegal in seven states" when a particularly unfortunate teen galumphed by.

we live in a (relatively) civil society, people. social contract and all that. so please, please, join me in COVERING THAT SHIT UP.

red fish, eeeeww fish

and finally, to the speedo-clad man at the uptown ywca doing poolside sit-ups during swimming lessons for impressionable children (and fragile mommies):  sir, i beg of you:

COVER.

THAT.

SHIT.

UP!

a noun is a person, place or thing. or a baby.

"why do you hate the baby?" names volume 3 – the nouning of our children:

• azurite
  
• poppy
  
• holiday
  
• champale
  
• karizzma 
  

with apologies to dr. seuss

the sun did not shine.

it was too wet to play.

so we sat in the house

all that cold, cold, wet day.

or we would have, if had any sense at all. but i had tried to take the girls to see farm babies at the minnesota zoo (sponsored by hormel! ook) last week, only to remember it was spring break for the minneapolis public schools and there were approximately 1 million people with the same idea. we bailed; much unhappiness ensued.

so i promised – something i try NEVER to do – that i would take them today, because the damn exhibit closes this weekend. (perhaps because hormel has plans for the little dears?) which means, of course, that it has been raining, snowing, gusting and blowing since yesterday.

"but mommy, you promised!" so, like an asshole, i packed us up and headed through the slush to the swine barn. at least i'm a prepared asshole:  i had the jogging stroller with the rain cover, a lap robe, snacks, drinks, lovies – christ, the girls were bundled up better than lara in dr. zhivago. other people were slogging the 1/2 mile or so each way with flimsy umbrella strollers, soggy blankets, or just carrying their unhappy young'uns.

and, like all great parenting achievements, the payback was...whining. it's cold, why can't we see the dolphins too, i want an oompa loompa now, etc.

tomorrow the whole family is going to the water park! fuuuuuu...

another rite of passage

first tooth, first step, first word, first barbie doll decapitation.

at least her coat will be nice and glossy

my people are not at their best in the morning, especially the handsome man. i don't think he really wakes up until about noon, poor thing. but he tries.

this morning, he took over toast duty from me (i don't remember why; it probably involved some sort of child-related mess). and he proceeded to make thing two cinnamon sugar toast with...shortening.

in his defense, the earthy-crunchy, braid-your-armpit-hair margarine and shortening we buy because of thing two's food allergies are packaged the same:  both in gold foil wrappers.  note to the earth balance company:  would it kill you to invest in some silver foil, too?

who knows what evil lurks in the gut of a small child?

how is this even possible? my not-quite-four-and-a-half year old just plugged up the john, and it wasn't with toilet paper. 

good god, how does a body that small even produce something that large? she weighs 36 pounds, has a butt the size of my fist, and only just grew out of her size 2-3t undies!

the handsome man is off to fetch the plunger...

well

it's 7:52 a.m. on saturday. time for several more hours of sleep, a leisurely breakfast, a pedicure and perhaps a nap.

hee.

actually, it's time to start my third load of laundry for the day, since one child managed to pee through two beds last night (hers and then mine). but first, i must dispose of a giant steaming turd, courtesy of the other child.

the glamour never ends.

call hazelden

the handsome man was prepping my second cup of tea this morning, and he reused the tea bag from the first cup as i usually do (i am cheap). i allowed as how i intended to go full strength on the second cup today with a whole new bag. so, being the wild man that he is, he simply popped a second tea bag into the cup, along with the first one. "speed ball!" he said laughing.

sadly, that's about as close to illicit pleasures as people our age get any more.

what's a 9-letter word for brain balm?

c-r-o-s-s-w-o-r-d.

i used to read a lot. like, a lot a lot. partly it was vocation:  i was a double-major undergrad who went immediately on to get back-to-back graduate degrees (in art history and museum studies, because i wanted to make the big bucks).

but mostly it was because i loved words. books, magazines, talk radio, dictionaries. (did i mention i was not part of the cool crowd in school? did i need to?) i read at the table, in the bathtub, behind textbooks in class. i read cereal boxes and shampoo bottles if there was nothing else available. at one point, my mother hid my tattered copy of gone with the wind because i had read its 1024 pages so many times it had begun to disintegrate. (we're talking probably a dozen times or more. and yes, i did find it, though it took me a while – it was in the laundry hamper. well played, mom; well played). i knew my husband was the man for me when i realized he read even more than i do, and we spent many nights and weekends in happy silence with our respective printed materials, or reading the funny bits out loud to each other.

then i had children. 

it is hard to dive down into the depths of, say, the latest harry potter or sue grafton or michael pollan when you have a hive of hornets buzzing around your head. the constant requests/tantrums/fights/need for attention RIGHT NOW kind of kill the ability to follow a complicated story line.

i think that is why i have embraced crossword puzzles with such ferocity:  they are perfect for my adhd lifestyle. ten minutes, five minutes, a passing glance – any amount of time, no matter how small, can generate pleasure and keep the old neurons firing for one more day. i may put the milk in the cupboard or throw my keys in the trash or lose my sunglasses on top of my head (really, really and really), but at least i remember that a five-letter word for paper quantity is "quire." 

shove over, condoleezza

i may have a solution to the world's diplomatic snarls:  preschool teachers.

preschool teachers are masters at saying things in the sweetest, most cushioned way possible. they can make a compliment out of virtually anything.

here's what it said on the report i got last week at thing one's preschool conference:

"josie is a happy, well-liked little girl developing good self-esteem."

wait for it...

"quiet in a positive way – always gets her needs met."

hmm...

"can be a leader as well as a follower."

here it comes....

"likes to take on the 'mom' role at times."

is that not the nicest way of saying "bossy little shit" you've ever heard? think of what this women could do in the world's hot spots.

april fool's

ok, very funny. someone can come and remove the snow any time.

any time now.

any time.

is there an ark for this?! maybe a giant luge?

it has now been snowing for nearly 15 hours straight. sweet fancy moses, it looks like a scene from little house on the prairie outside:  total white desolation. 

we are a state of five million april fools for putting up with this.

(in a related development, the handsome man just walked by and remarked how pretty it is. i may have to smother him with a pillow.)