A true story from Carrick-on-suir, Ireland

(I found this while searching for a "daily groaner." I'm putting it here instead because: a) it's actually funny, and b) it's too long to place in the index.)

"Recently a routine Gardai (police) patrol parked outside a local neighbourhood tavern. Late in the evening the Garda noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk. The man stumbled around the carpark for a few minutes, with the Garda quietly observing.

After what seemed an eternity and trying his keys on five vehicles, the man managed to find his car, which he fell into. He was there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally he started the car, switched the wipers on and off (it was a fine dry night), flicked the indicators on, then off, tooted the horn and then switched on the lights.

He moved the vehicle forward a few cm, reversed a little and then remained stationary for a few more minutes as some more vehicles left.

At last he pulled out of the car park and started to drive slowly down the road.

The Garda, having patiently waited all this time, now started up the patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and carried out a Breathalyzer test.

To his amazement the Breathalyzer indicated no evidence of the man having consumed alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the Garda said, 'I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the Police station; this Breathalyzer equipment must be broken.'

'I doubt it,' replied the man. 'Tonight I'm the designated decoy!'"

Mr. Potato

brings out the Picasso in all of us.


mine


elle's


mine with improvements (em insisted mr. P needs a hat)


"Foot, Mommy, foot!"


"Take one of me, Mom!"

All in all, a sublime way to spend a Wednesday afternoon.

A quiet moment

A random dozen

A take off my FIL’s blog on “random thoughts,” here are twelve random tidbits about me.

1. I love it here. Really, I do. Early on in summer, I was stretched out on backyard grass with wind in my hair, sky so blue it might burst above me, sunlight washing everything molten gold. It was the first time I consciously recognized how beautiful it is here.
2. Jan through March, I hate it here.
3. Chocolate chip cookies taste better with peanut butter and a bit of cinnamon mixed in, IMO. (For everyone Swiss or married to someone Swiss, IMO=in my opinion. Notice I didn’t use IMHO, which means in my humble opinion, as I would have been lying.)
4. I am not-so-secretly horrified at the number of structural errors in the classroom newsletters written by my children’s teachers throughout the year. These are the very people charged with the duty of teaching my sons how to spell, punctuate, and properly construct a sentence. (What was I thinking?) Tres annoying.
5. Not anywhere nearly annoying enough to persuade me to homeschool.
6. I am, right at this very moment, observing my daughter as she licks pencils. And wondering whether or not I should be concerned.
7. In spite of number 4, I have a penchant for using fragments, particularly for emphasis. Like this. But in my defense, it’s a stylistic thing, or at least that’s what I tell people.
8. My favorite Sesame Street characters are those weirdo jelly guys from outer space who only say, “Yep yepyepyepyepyep, Uh-huh, uh-huh,” followed by the Tweedlebugs who live in Bert’s flower box. The Count would be a distant third. (He has a great laugh.)
9. I’d still watch Fraggle Rock if it were on. (Yes, it’s supposed to be “were,” not “was,” because of the subjunctive mood. I think.)
10. I used to make fun of people who religiously watched Grey’s Anatomy and rehashed the drama between Meredith and McDreamy after each episode. And then I actually watched a show. And now I’m hooked, although I could do without all the extramarital steaminess.
11. I started a quilt for Ann and Jer’s baby two months ago. I joked w/Jeremy that hopefully it’ll be done before C graduates, but now it looks like maybe I wasn’t actually joking.
12. Despite living in this house since May, we still have a garage half-full of packed boxes. This gnaws at me, but then I unpack a box and I’m good for a week.

Okay, who's next?



Addendum: So now I'm seized with guilt for being the person who complains about hardworking teachers (I've always despised that person). So here's the thing:
Yes, I do realize that we cannot reasonably expect to attract the creme de la creme with such meager pay (haha, when I first typed that, I wrote "suck meager pay"...Freudian slip??). So this is a sad case of getting what we pay for.

Also, I don't actually expect them to be perfect. Just pretty darn close (LOL). See, I taught with people who were incredibly gifted and very easily could've gone into, say, neurosurgery, but instead chose education because of their passion for teaching and, apparently, for being poor. (Which prompts yet another disclaimer: I know that most Americans are ludicrously wealthy compared to most of the world's population, but that's a soapbox I'll save for another day, count your lucky stars.)

So anyway, I guess I just keep hoping that my children will end up with those teachers. The ones who defy logic. And you know, sometimes my children do. But the odds are not in my favor, so I will do my best to shut up about educators in general from now on.

Turning corners

So I probably shouldn't be posting again, as whenever I post ten thousand times in one day (or twice, if you're not participating in my exaggeration) I'm struck with the fear that I'll wake up tomorrow with nothing to say to you all. I know, that would be the day. Indeed.

And now that we've squelched those qualms, here is what was oh-so-important that I just *had* to write you all again.

See, Elle's birthday is right around the corner (okay, it's in October, so more like around the corner and down two blocks, close enough), so isn't someone just *dying* to get her this? And in case you've had a long day, the correct answer to that question is yes, you are all dying to race to Gymboree and buy that. Except that the mall is closed by this time on Sundays, so I guess you'll have to wait till tomorrow.

And in case you've had an exceptionally long day, click on the word "this" in the above paragraph--it should be colored, which is a big giant hint that it's a link. We won't mention the names of those of you who just recently learned this, but you know who you are, and you just might be Swiss.

Alright, sorry, negative twenty points for me.

And just in case, I'm joking about the purse; if it makes it to clearance, I'll purchase it for Elle myself. And I may have to borrow it from her, come to think of it.

a note on wood

In SS class today we talked about sawdust vs planks and our indelible need to point out other people's flaws, disregarding our own fault-riddled selves. We all know, and sometimes are, the person who rants on about how unreasonable or selfish Miss PseudoChristian is being, how she seems to ferret out ways to make us miserable. "How can she claim to be a follower of God?" we wonder with all piety.

Somebody hand us a mirror and quick.

Susanna, who led today's class, said that after awhile we notice that these rantings tell us more about the ranter than the people he/she's recriminating. Well said.

A few years back, we hobbled through some difficult days. In that time, I learned that loving someone says a whole lot about who I am, and virtually nothing about who the someone is--like whether or not they deserve it, or how lovable they might be. I can choose to love someone who spitefully uses, belittles, wrongfully accuses me--or worse, my family. I can love them, not because of who they are, but because of who I am--a child of the Author of grace, forgiven of so much myself.

PS--And I'm still working on this, will probably always be working on this. Why do I find it so easy to cast stones?

Post Post Script--And by "love," I *don't* mean feeling all warm-and-slooshy inside everytime I see their face. I mean treating them with kindness (yes, even behind their backs, which is way hard), and wanting good to happen to them. Like I said, still working on this one.

Brokenness

“If my life is broken when given to Jesus, it is because pieces will feed a multitude, while a loaf will satisfy only a little lad.”
--Ruth Stull, Peru


A dozen years ago, I had this scrawled on a Post-it and stuck to the wall of my dorm room.

Something in those words resonated within the core of me; not the me who joked and sang and grinned in public, but the me who was when no one looked on. It was how I felt at the time: fragmented, piecemeal, torn apart from the inside. It’s how I still feel some days.

Inevitably, when someone heard where I was from, their response included something along the lines of, “And you gave up the ocean for here?” And I would elaborate on why I chose that Midwest college, citing scholarships and family ties and such.

But the truth is, that’s hardly why I left the islands. I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because I couldn’t stay.

It’s impossible to explain without rehashing years I’d just as soon forget, but I will say this: my life wasn’t broken because I gave it to Jesus. It was broken because I kept it from him. I made someone else my god, and that someone simultaneously loved me and tore me to shreds, and I think I’m still in the sluggish process of recovering.

And I don’t know exactly why I’m writing this today except that it’s therapeutic, I guess. And to say that I’d trade my brokenness for that which Ms. Stull speaks of in a heartbeat, never looking back.

People often say that God gives us everything for nothing if we just ask, but that’s not really true. Not at all true. He demands it all, everything we hold dear, our entire lives sacrificed at his feet.

Our tired, shattered, misshapen lives. Our emptiness, every last drop of it.

And in return, he gives us life, full and free and unending.

Not so bad a deal, if you ask me.

Hazel Woods

My latest listing, in rusty autumn hues.

Mothers: Every Year is Their Year

(I didn't write this, but I should have, LOL)

This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year in 1999. All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" they could say "Of course, wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can't find their children.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.

And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, fry a chicken, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it heart?

Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

I think so.

So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies.

And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2 year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school.

And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips -- sometimes until they bleed -- when their 14 year olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.

This is for the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all the mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomachaches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.

Author Unknown

Ready or not

here he comes. (Zee's first day of kindergarten.)





PS The house is so quiet it's a little unnerving.

For the record

(Most of you have this figured out, but just in case:)

No, I did not name my children Bee, Zee, Em, and Elle. These are the first letters of their names.

C'mon folks, I'm odd, but not that odd.

Mom, I'm entirely too cool to be doing this

Bee's first day as a third grader (Zee's first day of school is tomorrow; kindergartners don't start till then):






Caption below: "Mom, stop taking pictures of me!"



I just look at him and think, when did he go and get all grown up? Oh, how time whirls by.

Somebody give the girl some paper

Ah yes. My daughter, the artist.

Five Things

Okay, so the other day I read on someone’s blog (too lazy to look up whose; sorry) that Carmen wants us all to post a minimum of five things we’re thankful for. Now, I don’t know who this Carmen-gal is, exactly (or at all), but if you do, tell her this was a fabulous idea.


Five things (serious version)

1. Hope

Hub and I borrowed “United 93” (which, in case you’re dying to hear my review, was good in theory but lacking in execution), and this prompted a discussion about how people face death. Watching the video, you could almost grip the despair, it was so palpable.

I can’t imagine the horror, the consuming sadness of approaching death bereft of hope. It was hard to watch.

2. Forgiveness

I’ve been the sole founder of many less-than-stellar-moments, to put it mildly. Without forgiveness—a wiped out past, clean start—I don’t think I could have lived with myself, and I do mean that quite literally.

3. Family

They’re strange but they’re mine and I’m blessed.

4. Memory

A blessing and a curse, and (at least in my case) growing increasingly unreliable with time...but memory is essential to who we are at our very core, y’know? (Don’t think about this one too much, it’ll keep you up at night. Or maybe that’s just me. Is it just me? Okay, it’s me.)

5. I don’t know what to choose here...there are just too many candidates...color and companionship and peace and laughter and quiet and health and language and touch and music and emotions and literature and light...love ‘em all...



Five more things (not so serious)

1. All things chocolate. Except for maybe chocolate covered pork fat. That’s just wrong.

2. Toilet paper (okay, you’re making a face, but really, I know you’re grateful for this one too...)

3. Duct tape. Good for all occasions. Incidentally, have you ever made a duct-tape wallet? Tres chic, I tell you. And tres cheap, too.

4. Bubbles. They’re just so happy.

5. Dishwasher. Ingenious piece of work; I would like to personally kiss whomever is responsible for it.

So there you go. See? I can be thankful if I try.

Lifeline

Sometimes when I'm flailing, drowning in this thing I call my life, I search out this passage:

"Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the Lord,
The Creator of the ends of the earth
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable."

(Isaiah 40.28)

As someone said to me recently, "God knows." So much lies within those two words, don't you think? God knows. He knows the intricacies of all I grapple with, the depth and fullness of my fears, longings, regrets. He knows.

It may not make everything instantaneously perfect, but it's enough.

Pennies&Magic

A sampling of the latest package (thanks, Mum!) delivered by Mr. Postal Guy:



Clockwise from top left:

Origami paper, to coax out the inner-crafty-folder lying dormant in us all

Rolls of pennies for the kids (I think my mum is funding Em's future dinner complaints)

Okay, so these look like just rocks, but they are not just rocks. They are *magic* rocks. When you put them in your mouth, they abscond their rockhood and become chocolate. My theory: they were created by some guy who was sick of his coworkers robbing his candy stash. Now he can set a very zen-like bowl of decorative (chocolate) rocks in his cubicle, and sneak a couple every now and then when everyone else is busy telemarketing toothpaste insurance. Hey, it could happen.

Pure Punk

I've got this funky new set listed...my first whirl at a tutu, and in black of all things. Definitely not for the faint of heart, but of course, Elle makes all outfits look sweet.

Good for a (dry) laugh

So I entered, then promptly lost, an informal corny-joke contest on someone else's blog. I'm unclear on whether I should feel disappointed or relieved.

Either way, I've added a "Daily Groaner" spot--check the sidebar at right--to post horribly dry jokes for your enjoyment. I forewarn you not to take the "daily" part too literally.

Email me if you've got a groaner you'd like me to consider posting here...clean jokes only, please.

Literary Brilliance

I’m a self-appointed book critic with enormous emphasis on the “critic” part. In my grand opinion, bookstores are littered with shelves of wasted trees laden with flat characters, contrived plots, preaching authors, mind-numbing prose...ugh. The name Picky Nicki was well deserved.

Every now and then, though, I stumble across a book—or better yet, an author—that/who floors me. Sue Monk Kidd is one of those authors.

I like to fancy that I can write, but “The Mermaid Chair” bashed that notion into fine dust. She can write. Oh, can she write.

Her prose reads like poetry, woven through with gilded imagery, and she has this way of peeling back the callused skin of life and piercing right into the marrow of things.

(Disclaimer: This book is honest, so those of you who find yourselves easily offended may want to steer clear.)

I devoured (yet savored) this novel, cover to cover, in a single evening. It’s that good.

Go dust off your library cards, folks.

maintenance issues

okay, just some technical updates here--

I changed my comments settings to hopefully: a)allow my brother to post, and b)disallow weirdo spam people/machines to post

So now you'll have to verify your comment by typing in some letters...yes, very annoying, but so am I and yet you're still reading this. :)

And also I think I might have to approve your comments before they'll actually post, so if your comment doesn't show up immediately, don't resubmit it. Just breathe in...breathe out...and repeat about 5,000 times.

Thanks, guys.

Sweets

My mom's friend Phe crocheted (or knit?) this delightful strawberries-and-cream medley for Elle. Now if it would only fit my extra-large noggin...

Pining for Aunthood

Okay, so we’ve all heard the adage, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” right? Well, now you have. I’m like the opposite of that in terms of parenthood.

Hang with me here, I’m about to make sense.

See, I’m always a mother, never an aunt. Seriously. We show up at, say, Christmas, or 4th of July or something, and I realize: I’m the only one having kids around this place.

So now that I’m really done having kids (the last two times I said that, I was apparently just kidding), I’ve been hoping--ironically--for a baby. Preferably the very-cute-related-to-me kind of baby that goes home to someone else’s place to wake them up at 2:00 in the morning. That kind.

My side of the family offers zero hope, since Noel is apparently allergic to marriage, and Nate has (wisely) opted not to have kids, for fear that they will turn out like him.

But. We have light at the end of the tunnel, folks.

(Insert drumroll) And so I hereby award 80 points to Kindra for making me an aunt. (Okay, Seth gets five points for having something to do with it.) She is due in March (yippee!) and she doesn’t look pregnant yet, but I am confident she will be very cute.

Aunthood, here I come.

Punctuation is for the birds

My definition of a mid life crisis is when you wonder if this really is indeed your life and what exactly you were doing while it got this way

This is me currently except that I use the term mid life rather loosely as I do aspire to live past fifty-nine

But

Sometimes in the dead of night I imagine I once held a big bright bottle of Potential but it toppled somewhere along the way and now the sparkling stuff slips through my cupped hands as through a sieve and the drip drip dripping ticks off the seconds of my life

Because

These days all my old school chums are a variety of doctors with a lawyer or two sprinkled in for good measure and back then I beat them all

every
single
one

but now that they are doctorly lawerly folk and I am just me I think this means that I am losing except I can’t decide whether or not to care

Thursday

So today seems like a good day for points.

Ten to Loren for sacrificing his fingers in the name of home improvement.

Fifteen to Nate for being the first person to send me his meme. Those of you who have not yet returned yours are delinquent.

Twelve points to Grandma for making the best cream pies this side of Cleveland. Somehow when I make them (using her recipe, mind you), the insides turn out gloopy. Yes, that is a word. I suspect she has deliberately omitted a key ingredient to insure that she will be the supreme pie maker, but this has yet to be confirmed.

A penny for your complaints

It’s apparent that Em knows the relative value of coins.

Me: “The next person who complains about dinner is going to owe me money.”

Ten second pause.

Em: “But I don’t like potatoes!” (for the fifth time)

Me: “Go get your coins.”

Em, returning with piggy bank in hand: “Mommy, I don’t think you need a quarter. I think maybe you just need a penny.”

Turning four

It was a full day.

We gathered a few of the highlights:


Em cleaning up after cake mixing.

(For the record, I do appreciate the potential hazards of licking batter containing raw eggs, but this is one area in which I am an indulgent mum, and feel the guaranteed joy outweighs the unlikely risk. If it makes you feel any better, I'll give myself a minus ten points and keep Loren company in negative land.)


Birthday candle blowing.

Ah yes. The blessed moment where the whole cupcake sits in your hand...

Frosting tester (somebody's gotta do it).

Bliss.

The inevitable bit of pouting by Zee, a staple of everyday life.

The gifts.

The playing that comes after the gifts.

And now we are four. What a delicious age.

Stolen meme

Okay, so I got this from Sara, aka the bluecanopy, whose blog I sometimes read and who doesn't know I exist. But Sara, if you ever stumble across this post, thanks. It was fun.

1. FIRST NAME: Nicole
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? Uh...I don’t think so. Was I?
3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Sunday, in church (in spite of the fact that I really despise crying in public).
4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? I used to. It’s kind of evolved into this rushed mess of a thing these days, and even when I slow down I can’t get it to look like it did when I first married.
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Roast beef from the deli counter, probably because it’s so expensive that I like never have it.
6. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Um, that would be an understatement.
7. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Hmm...maybe, if I ever got to know me. Chances are pretty good I’d just refer to me as the lady with ten thousand kids.
8. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Just this blog.
9. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Not so much anymore. It’s cutting, and I’m trying to be kinder than that.
10. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yep. I think.
11. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Depends. I was a lot more daring pre-kids.
12. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Crispix.
13. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? No. Which drives my husband insane.
14. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? In what sense? Yes, I tend to think I’m strong, but this belief is interspersed with episodes of crushing helplessness.
15. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? At the moment, Breyer’s Light Mocha Silk something-or-other.
16. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Their breath. Seriously, I don’t know. Probably the way they carry themselves.
17. RED OR PINK? The lesser of two evils: pink.
18. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My self-absorbancy.
19. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? I go through these phases of intense, to-the-bone, longing for people. Right now it’s for my high school friends.
20. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Uh, yah. Either email it or post it as a comment, or better yet, start a blog of your own (ahem, Kindra. Kristin too).
21. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES YOU ARE WEARING? White AE boxers with Carribbean colored tropical print, no shoes. Ah, the blessedness of working from home.
22. THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Chocolate milk, does that count?
23. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? A tv duet by Ernie and Big Bird; Em crying because he can’t eat his Cocoa Pebbles in the living room.
24. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Some kind of a muted blue.
25. FAVORITE SMELL? Hmmm...that’s a tough one. Here are a few: morning ocean, Elle’s hair when she’s warm, fruit pies baking, lilacs in June.
26. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My madre, last night.
27. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Well, technically, she didn’t send it to me, I more like lurked around her blog and stole it, plus I don’t know her, but she seems like a decent sort.
28. FAVORITE DRINK: hot chocolate, Mexican style
29. FAVORITE SPORT: soccer (like there's any other sport)
30. HAIR COLOR? boring brown
31. EYE COLOR? equally boring brown
32. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? If I didn’t, I couldn’t be answering this question.
33. FAVORITE FOOD? um...ice cream? steak? I love tortilla soup.
34. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDING? No scary movies for me.
35. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? Bringing Down the House (on video, free from the library. Good thing it was free).
36. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? grey
37. SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer, although I really prefer autumn.
38. HUGS OR KISSES? Depends on whose doing the hugging and kissing. Mostly hugs I guess.
39. FAVORITE DESSERT? oh goodness, are you really making me choose? Hmmm...I really like these Dole fruit bars (frozen chunks of fruit) cloaked in dark chocolate...but of course they don’t make them anymore...sigh. And it was even sort-of healthy.
40. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Kristin
41. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Poley
42. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? Other than the Bible? Ummm...Blue Like Jazz (or maybe I finished that one...it's been a while)
43. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? support.dell.com (hey, it was free)
44. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT? Todd was watching some kind of comedian reality show, and CSI, so I sort of watched a little bit here and there.
45. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Rain, the ocean at night, Elle singing her way through life or saying the word Milk (“milp”)
46. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Who? haha...seriously, I’m too young.
47. THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? I don’t know, how far is Spain from Hawaii? Ten thousand miles?
48. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? Uh...I can bend my thumbs back at the first knuckle to a 90 degree angle...does that count?

Okay, folks, get to it.

In a box

Twenty points to Mom for sending a little bit of Christmas in a box.

Packages from Grandma are always one part tangible love, one part magic. The contents prove you know your grandkids well:

--purple glue sticks and boxes of fresh, pointy crayons for children who are forever crafting paper kingdoms from cerebral blueprints

--cups of chocolate pudding for their inherited sweet tooth

--clear sacks of those gummy treats for which Elle has an incurable fetish

all packed up tight in a flat rate box, delivered in the full-bloomed heat of mid-summer.

Grazie.