It's A Horse! It's A Frog! It's....It's....Flaxseed?

There's something caught in my throat. No, I mean it. Literally. Something small. Something sharp. Something very, very tenacious wedged behind a tonsil or something. And it's driving me CRAZY!

Seriously folks. It's about to do me in. Stupid, fancy, whole-grain Norwegian bread with all its unrefined bits of cereal flotsam! Caught in my throat I tell you! I've been hacking, gagging, gargling, retching all day long trying to disgorge the offending nugget, but to no avail.

Help me! How do I get rid of it?

In other news--there is no other news. In fact, lately I've been giving serious thought to shutting down this two-bit operation due to the exhaustive thoroughness of my lack of news.

I guess I could always turn this into one of those newsy, updatey types of family affairs (which, granted, I guess it is anyway) where I do nothing but recap the weeks events from EM's first day of Jazz dance (loved it) to my record breaking run around Kalandsvatne (rocked it). But, honestly, who the hell cares?

From the very beginning I thought it would be more interesting to focus on single moments of whimsy or snark worthy folly to keep you all in our family's loop rather than a more pedestrian run-down of the weekly minutia of our life. But lately, it seems my radar for these rarified gems and vignettes has gone off. Or, more to the point, my ability to write about them as gone down the toilet.

To wit, I spent three days last week writing a long entry about how EM's 101 questions about God and his ilk have finally filtered down to The Boy, and how my artless avoidance of the subject has now got Poor Boy in such a theological muddle I fear Thomas Aquinas himself couldn't set him straight. But by the time I got through the whole piece, I realized that rather than conveying how charming their curiosty is versus how hapless I am at fielding these awkward religious matters, I only sounded like a grumpy atheist. Worse--a grumpy atheist with a thesaurus.

I ended up dumping the whole thing in the recycle bin, and left to find nirvana in a yoga class instead. Which is pretty much where I've been since.

Oh, and hey, speaking of which, if God could be said to be found in a really deep hamstring stretch...there ya' go EM! Two hands to Jesus! I'm a believer! It felt just.that.good.

Semi-Precious

It's been a while since I shared any of Elder Miss's daft yet oh-so earnest truisms.

So without further ado:

"Mom, you are my greatest love. Without you I would die. But don't ever tell my friends that I kiss you."

"Boy! You always get it wrong! If it's two foots, it's feet. If it's just one feet, it's foot. Get it right now, k'?"

And finally, this, which I found stuffed in one of the three dozen notebooks she keeps scattered around the house:

Which reminds me--Alpha Grandma, as far as my memory serves, you didn't read my diary. You read a spiral notebook you found while helping me clean out my desk. And clearly, snooping through notebooks is part of the job description. Stop beating yourself up already. You're off the hook.

A Little Freedom Is A Dangerous Thing

Is anyone out there sufficiently compulsive enough to save, rewash, and reuse plastic ziplock baggies?

If so, do you happen to have any sort of brilliant advice on the most efficient way to dry them?

Since school started, I find myself making three packed lunches everyday, and my conscience (not to mention my wallet) just can't tolerate tossing all that perfectly evil plastic into the garbage day after day. I've been washing them, but I have no idea how to get the insides dry enough to reuse them the following day.

Mister talks longingly of the days when we didn't have half a dozen baggies hanging off every cupboard door in the kitchen, and it's only the fourth day of school. Please, help me to help him stop whining.

This One's For Jilly. Everyone Else--Avert Your Gaze

We didn't really get to say good-bye.

That's okay. I'm fine with that. Good-byes are not really my thing. All that awkward, compulsary hugging--in my vast, intimate experience with leaving-taking--has a tendency to lead to tears. And crying in public, my dear Jilly, simply will not do. So I will say my final farewell to you here, in my space, under my terms, where hopefully I can make you laugh instead of cry. Because, ultimately, that's how I hope you will remember me. Laughing. At you.

I, in my turn, choose to remember you this way--flesh colored kneehighs and goofy red polkadot converse, with that crazed, histrionic glint in your eyes--on your way to find more tequila. Bless you.

I will remember your birthday: the Scissor Sisters, and the strange eager boy who kissed me in the cold because you wouldn't let me go home when I wanted to.

I will remember the Samsonite.

I will remember last winter when you made Michelle stop talking about her sister long enough to hear that I was tired and lonely and in need of diversion.

But there is no need for this to read like a eulogy. You are not dead to me, and the chance of us never crossing paths again is exactly nil. I'm very good at long distance relationships. In fact, much like a fine work of Impressionist art, I'm best viewed from a distance.* Something to do with movement and blending colors. Whatever. Clearly the charm of my writing does not lie in the strength of my metaphors. The point is, the stongest relationships in my life were built--or are being actively reinforced--from across continents and oceans both. Alas, our children will no longer be playmates. But you and I are solid.

Don't get me wrong. I still think you're a total bitch for leaving. I don't care how much tea you left me. I will eventually run out, and then what? Well, then I'll take what's left of M's stash. But then what? Plus, who's going to watch the girls while I sit vigil at Boy's nad-fishing operation? And I never did get to go running with you. And there's still the whole matter of Breakfast at IKEA which just won't be the same without you.

*sigh*

Life goes on.

I do wish you the best in this next phase of your life. I'm told that sheep-shaggers are some of the most special people in the whole world, so you've at least got geography on your side. And, just so you know, New Year's is still on the table.

Until then--and I say this with my whole heart--so long, and thanks for all the rum.


*If you really must compare me to a work of Impressionist art, please let it be a darkly elegant Degas. Or possibly one of the later Renoir portraits. But never a clumsy, clotted Van Gogh. Or worse, one of those sweetly prosaic Monet's that you find stapled to the walls of college dorm rooms the world over.

Self Discovery

Missy has discovered coloring.

She prefers EM's markers, but EM is disinclined to share her markers, and has a tendency to use voilence when repossessing property that she sees as exclusively hers.

That's okay. Missy is content with regular ol' Crayola's as well.

Over the past few weeks, Missy has spent countless, quite hours patiently filling in the pages of this coloring book which I picked up for her in Salt Lake just before we left.

Red appears to be her favorite color.

The character you see is Missy's very favoritest thing at the moment.

Her name, according to Missy, is

Hello Klitty!

BOY!

I know all you're seeing is a baby wrapped in a pink blanket, but that is, in fact, Boy-- my boy--barely six hours old, five years ago today.

I must admit, his father and I were somewhat disheartened at what an odd looking duck he was during the first few months of his life. Ah, but did he ever flesh out nicely over the years!

And such a sweet, gentle little soul! A genuine pleasure to be around. You know...when he's not whining about Elder Miss touching him, or Missy breathing on him...

He can be a finicky, prickly little thing, but for some reason, seeing pictures of him as a baby--more so than seeing pictures of the girls, or even more than holding a real live flesh and blood baby--makes my ovaries tick, my boobs twitch, my arms itch for another one. Mostly I avoid the file marked "Boy" like the plague, but on this night of nights, I just couldn't help myself.

I never wanted a son. When I found out I was carrying one I was sullen, and disappointed, and not just a little apprehensive about the prospect of having to bond with such an alien creature.

How silly was I? His puppy-like buoyancy, his easy enthusiasm, and his screwy circuitous logic--foreign as they all are--feed me.

His Fairy Godmother, La Dragon, gave him a book for his baptism. It's kind of a sappy, hippy-dippy, this-is-your-planet-now-respect-it-in-all-its-infinite-majesty little elegy called "On the Day You Were Born" by Debra Frasier. From the very beginning, and still to this day, I have a hard time reading the last page without getting all teary-eyed and choked up. Please forgive my trite, hackneyed sentimentality as I share them with you:

"Welcome to the spinning world," the people sang,
as they washed your new, tiny hands.

"Welcome to the green Earth, " the people sang,
as they wrapped your wet, slippery body.

And as they held you close
they whispered into your open, curving ear,
"We are so glad you've come!"

See, The Thing Is

I've sat, and I've sat, and I've sat.

And I've mused, and I've ruminated, and I've pondered.

Still. I can't think of anything interesting, or even mildly amusing to write about.

I think I must be stuck in some sort of crippling, summer duldrums.

Drained by tedium of all energy and creativity, I'm left shuffling listlessly through the house looking for some quite corner where the frenzied, fussy bellyaching of the children's own ennui can't find me.

Jesus summer sucks!

And it's not just because we're in Norway, and it's cold, and it won't stop bloody raining--though these circumstances certainly don't help. August feels a little bit to me like God put the world on pause while He ran to the john, only He got stuck there doing a crossword puzzle that He's almost done with, and can't quite tear Himself away from. But in the meantime, we mere mortals are left hanging in animated suspension with nothing to do, and no one to do it with until: First Day of School: Act I, Scene I. Action!

*sigh*

Throw some comments my way. Tell me what you're up to.

Entertain me before I implode!

HOME!

Home Sweet Home

But it's not. Not really. After being shut up for four weeks, it's taken on that musty, abandoned odor that I tend to associate with second-hand stores and root cellars. Not exactly a warm and inviting welcome, but it sure beats the shit out of an airplane, so I was glad to see it nonetheless.

Everything went as smoothly as possible. Flights were on time. Food was surprisingly tasty. Kids slept some. Luggage followed us. And customs officers ignored us. We dragged our furry teeth and sore asses through the door around noon yesterday and went directly to bed.

For now, we have succumbed entirely to the jet lag. Maybe tomorrow I'll get the kids out of bed before 10 a.m., but to be honest, I don't really see the point. It's summer. We've got nothing to do and no where to be. Who cares if it takes us the next two weeks to fully adjust our internal clocks? Mister maybe, but we stopped listening to him years ago.

I've spent the afternoon trying to come up with some clever way to segue into the following odd aspect of my trip. But seeing as its apropos of nothing very important, and I'm not really all that smart anyway, I'm just going to leave it dangling awkwardly out there, third nipple like, to sink or swim on its own merits.

Ahem

The nature of my flying phobia continues to morph and grow into ever more irrational mindfuckery. Last year, with the threat of liquid explosives fresh on everyone's mind, I was haunted by the image of large holes being blown in the fuselage and my babies being sucked one by one from my meager arms. I was a total bitch about seat belts, constantly nagging the kids to keep them on, cinching them tighter and tighter across their thighs like maybe that would help. The summer before last it was hijaking--being seperated from my kids, or worse, killed in front of them--that worried me most.

This summer the menace of terrorism lay strangely dormant in my imagination. Instead, at odd times during the flight, my mind would seize upon enormity of the dark distance seperating my feet from the ground. Lame as it sounds, I could quite literally feel the abyss opening up under me--my toes would curl, my knees would pull upwards into my belly, and I could feel vertigo pulling me downwards until I could settle my mind back on whatever inane movie I'd put on the screen infront of me

P.S. Blades of Glory is, without question, the dumbest movie ever made, but it served its purpose well on that airplane.

Goodnight Salt Lake, Goodnight

I just wantonly stole this picture from an album Auntie Wag sent this afternoon. This is the sunset from Alpha Grandma's veranda sometime last week. It seemed like such a fitting way to say good-bye. Hopefully she won't mind too much.

It's been a hectic day of packing, last-minute shopping, and leave taking. But it's done. This time tomorrow, I'll be like half way home maybe. Hopefully. I try hard not to think through the specifics too far in advance lest I fret myself into some sort of fainting episode.

Good-bye my family. JEDA loves you!

Of Swimming Soups And Sunscream

Show of hands--who misses me? I mean, obviously not Jilly Baby, who did her level best to ruin my summer by blithely informing me via SMS this morning that she and her entire family are moving back to Scotland next month. But everyone else, right? Everyone else wishes me well, and wouldn't dream of upsetting the delicate balance of my life by taking their stupid ball and going home in the middle of the game. Right? I said...RIGHT?

The first week we were here, my older brother and his two kids--one of whom is the fabled Eefin--were in town from Chicago. I hadn't seen this particular brother in over six years, and it was the first time I'd ever met his kids, so we packed as much quality family time into six days as we could possibly stand. Eefin and Boy hit it off splendidly, and a fine time was had by all. Despite my brother trying to bum everyone out by announcing he and his wife of twelve or something years are seperated and filing for divorce.

No worries, though. After several middling to decent heart-to-hearts, I'm satisfied Big Brother's going to be just fine. And besides, news of his divorce served as a nice poetic foil to my little brother's wedding which occupied pretty much the entirety of the second week of our vacation. My family is good for full-circle symmetry that way--like the time in the 60's that my flower-power mother gave herself away as a birthday present to a total stranger in San Francisco, but had to hurry home Sunday morning to teach Sunday School. Or the way the groom's cake at my wedding was so weighted down with strawberries that it sagged and eventually flopped uselessly to the side, while the chocolate glaze on the bride's cake was so stiff and hard it took four hands and a serrated knife to crack through the damn thing.

The picture is of Missy and Boy--flower girl and ring bearer--at the rehearsal. Elder Miss and her cousin were flower girls. They all performed just beautifully, and I've almost forgiven the bride and groom for making me wait so long to get my food at the fancy pants barbeque (I say again--a bold choice for wedding fare) after the ceremony.

Almost.

I mean, it was a good 40 minutes I sat there waiting, and the chicken was all gone by the time my turn finally rolled around, and, while I was at the buffet table, I did miss the one fucking waiter who was doling out the wine. But it all worked out in the end. The ribs were delicious, my blood sugar evenutally normalized, and Cousin Sean and his naughty girlfriend hooked me up with some alcohol (a-lot of alcohol) after dinner. So, bygones. No worries. Except...all the deviled eggs were gone too. I love deviled eggs...

Since the wedding we've mostly just been cowering in shady pools trying to avoid sun stroke and heat exhaustion. There have been a few excursions here and there. In the evenings it cools off two or three tenths of a degree, and we venture out onto the veranda to argue politics and astronomy while we kill off a bottle or two of wine.

The kids are having the time of their life. But Elder Miss has begun to wonder if her friends in Norway have forgotten all about her. Boy is anxious about his upcoming birthday, and worries that his friends don't know the way to Alpha Grandma's house. Missy is relatively neutral about her surroundings, but I do think she's missing her honey and brown cheese sandwiches. So I guess it's just as well that we'll be wrapping up our visit over the next week.

It's not been nearly long enough for me. I'd stay another month if I could. But I do find myself yearning for a slightly more humane climate. I've had to stop running because the heat and the altitude make me weaze and gasp like a diseased donkey after just a mile or two. I need to get back to sea level, and back out on the road before my body forgets everything it's learned about running over the past 8 months.

Over and out from Utah.

One More Thing I Can Check Off My To-Do List

So, I made it to the top of my mountain. And, for the record, if there had been any streams in my way, I so would have forded every last one of them.

As it was I just walked along one for a while then crossed a bridge when I came to it. But look, that was the easy part. After the bridge we started going uphill--straight uphill. And then we came down. Sweet, merciful, ringlets of Jesus.....then we came down.....

I kept stopping every two or three hundred meters to say, "That's it. I'm done. Seriously. I won't step another bloody foot down this miserable, fucking hill! I! QUIT!"

Mister just stood quietly behind me, gazing serenely out at the view. When I was done, he'd hand me the water bottle and say, "Look, you can see the cars now. Next time you give up maybe we'll be able to hear them too."

Here are a few pictures (less than expertly placed because I'm lame and can't figure out a prettier way to add mulitple images to my text).





A nice flat bit at the beginning. The trail head started at the end of this valley.





Once we got to the top, we walked along this ridge to the peak, which is off in the distance there.



This is the view of Rosendal from the peak where we had our lunch.



And finally (for a bit of perspective), here's Mister and Boy the next day on the beach, and that's Malmangernuten--the monster I climbed--in the background. I'm happy to report that Mister was limping just as badly I was around that beach. Apparently, the monster is known for eating the toes of even its most smug and vainglorious of climbers on the way down. It's a wicked steep descent even for the most seasoned of hikers.

I Could Have Just Belted Him and Sent Him To His Room, But That Would Be Too Easy

"Mom, I spilled some spaghetti."

"Oh good, Boy! That's just great. Because, you know, I spent the whole afternoon cleaning, and the floors were so spotless and shiny. And I know how none of you feel very comfortable or at ease when the house is actually clean, so it's just as well, really, that it only took 30 minutes for someone to spill something. Now everyone can just go ahead and feel right at home. Brilliant! No, seriously. That's just great!"

He stares at me blankly. Squints a bit, then chews his lip as he reexamines his mess. Clearly something does not add up. Finally he adds, "No, Mom. I mean I spilled on the floor."

Our Annual Week O' Birthdays

Over and done with. Thank God!

It was poor, poor family planning indeed that landed us with two birthdays three days apart in May. Sex in September is banned forthwith in the JEDA household for the duration of our fertile years!

There was a big party here last Monday for Missy. Tante Farmer-in-the-dell and her four brooding offspring spent Sunday night with us, thus were here for the party the following day. Farmor came. Jilly Baby and The Vibrant Ms. M were both here, families in tow. As well as Linda and her kids (I'd give Linda a clever nickname to along with all the other clever nicknames which populate my blog, except her personality somehow precludes it. Which is not to say that she isn't a lovely person and doesn't deserve a little levity in her life. It's just that, she has none. Levity, that is. Linda gives the impression of being a deeply pragmatic person who'd simply rather not fuck around with art and metaphor. Linda is Linda. Not to be confused with my Auntie Linda who has a whopping, great personality and will fuck around with just about any flight of fancy or article of whimsy I might throw at her, even if it's only to blow smoke at it and tell me to stop being such a dipshit).

Where was I?

Ah yes, Missy's party. Nice enough, I suppose, if a little hectic. My chili was divine, if I do say so myself. But a plague upon all my children who do not seem to appreciate the delectable poetry that is my Grandma Taylor's chocolate cake. Stupid children and their stupid Norwegian palates.

Moving on.

Elder Miss's 7th birthday was Thursday. She hemmed and hawed, dithered, and flip-flopped for three days over what she wanted me to make her for her birthday dinner. She went from chicken wings to spaghetti to salmon steaks and back again before finally landing on (of all things) chicken noodle soup and a spice cake. Being the really shitty mother that I am, I ignored her final request, and made grilled chicken and rice instead. She loved it...as I knew she would because I'm her mother and I know her better than she knows herself.  Chicken noodle soup..........pfft, whatever!

Her class party was Saturday afternoon at one of these monkey jungle gym type places with huge cages full of balls and slides and nets. Horrid. I was dead-set against the idea on the grounds that a) it's where she had her party last year, and b) she's just too damn old for such a place. Her rebuttal went something like a) I went to a different school and had different friends last year, and b) So-and-So had her party there just last month and we weren't too big then, and besides I rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly wanna *stomp sulk pout*.

Can't very well argue with that logic now, can I? So Monkey Jungle it was.

It turned out fine. Every last one of them was pink-cheeked and sweaty by the end of it, so I think it's safe to say they all had a good time. Though at one point, I took a round about the place just to make sure everyone was still there and still behaving themselves, and found five of them (Elder Miss included) creeping about in the 2-foot crawl space between the tops of the cages and the ceiling. After I got them all safely down and told them under no circumstances were they to go up there again EVER! I asked the girl who was supposedly supervising our party how on earth they got up there. She just shook her head, seemingly baffled, "I have no idea. Kids are awfully clever, aren't they?" Yes, but one would have hoped that the geniuses who designed these contraptions were a bit more clever, don't ya' think?



So my girls are now officially a year older. And I can go ahead and start worrying about the next big to-do item on my list. Salt Lake City here we come!

Happy Day-After-Your Birthday, Missy!

Please God make it stop calling my name!

Hope Chest

I spent several hours this morning sorting through the kids' toys. It's time. There's 7 years worth of accumulated plastic crap up there.

Most of it I put in a box marked "Salvation Army". But some of it--the nice wooden stuff, the stuff that won't age--I put in another box destined for the attic.

This year my kids will be 7, 5, and 3. Today I put a stash of toys away for my grandkids.

Jesus. What a leap of faith.

Role Play

"Oh, isn't that a splendid idea!"

"What did you just say, Boy?"

"It's such a splendid idea!" This time clapping his hands and hugging them in to his heart for added emphasis.

"Seriously, Boy. That's weird. Why are you saying that?"

"It's something I just say when I'm being a girl."

Life IS Pain, Princess. Anyone Who Tells You Otherwise Is Selling You Something.

Ah, the politics of little girlhood. It has begun. Two weekends ago the weather was gorgeous and the phone was ringing off the hook with Elder Miss's little friends wanting to play. Last weekend the weather was something significantly less than gorgeous and no one called, which was just as well really, since she was sick and feverish and weak as a runty little kitten. But she still asked, "I wonder why anybody hasn't called me."

On Sunday, Mister was playing and giggling with Missy at the kitchen table. They were apparently whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear. Elder Miss muttered from the couch, "It's not nice to whisper. Martine is always whispering in Elin's ear, and it makes me feel bad."

On Monday, for the first time since autumn, she dragged her feet at the door, begged me not to make her go to school because "Elin was my very first best friend, but Martine won't let me play with her anymore." And yet twice last week EM missed the bus home because "Martine didn't want to play with Elin anymore, and she said I should miss the bus and play with her instead. She said it would be okay."

At her parent/teacher conference a few weeks ago, her teacher warned us that the three of them--EM, Martine, and Elin--were quite the turbulent little trio, one minute thick as thieves, the next bickering little ninnies. Natural. Normal. To be expected, I guess. But Christ what a headache!

Then there is the issue of birthday parties. It's a huge class, 66 kids split into 3 smaller groups. The information we were given at the beginning of the year was, of course no one expects you to invite every kid to any given party. It's traditional--recommended even--that you invite all the girls or all the boys, depending, in your group, but please be descreet about how you hand out the invitations.

Early last week, EM came home and matter of factly stated that she saw a whole bunch of party invitations being put in backpacks, but none of them had her name on, so she guessed she wasn't invited. She did not act terribly upset about this at the time. But this morning I went into her room to hurry her along, and found her sitting in her bed with a sad, grumpy pout on her face, so I ask, "What's wrong?"

"Today's Iselin's birthday."

"Ah," say I, Iselin is one of the girls EM has recently spent time with on the weekend. "Is she having a birthday party today?"

Elder Miss shrugs, "I don't know. Why don't the party cards (she means invitations) ever have my name on them?" EM has only received 3 invitations for the entire academic year.

Because people suck, baby. And life stinks. And little girls aren't terribly nice to one another. Get used to it. Of course I don't actually say this, but I want to. I'm certainly thinking it as I put her off saying maybe she's not having a party, maybe the party is this weekend and she'll get an invitation today, maybe Iselin's mom decided to only invite the girls in her I group and since EM isn't in that group there's really nothing I can do about any of it. So quitcher' belly achin' and GET DRESSED already!

Later at breakfast, EM says over a mouthful of Cheerios, "Elin and Martine don't like Iselin. They say mean things about her."

"Like what?"

"Mean things."

I can't get her to be more specific, probably because they say these mean things in Norwegian and she doesn't know how to translate them. So I ask, "What do you do when they say these mean things?"

"Don't know," she shrugs, which I think it's safe to say means nothing. Back-stabbing little bitch.

I'm not complaining. Nor am I terribly worried about her. I remember grade school. I remember playing this game. I remember taking turns being all the relevant characters in the drama. One day I was Martine turning one friend against another. The next day I was Iseline wondering why Elin was being such a bitch. And two days later I was EM, crying because I hadn't been invited to the party where all the cool kids would be.

It's had me thinking an awful lot about my childhood nemisis Jennifer Murray. It makes me want to find Jennifer Murray and give her a great big hug. No, actually, it makes me want to find Jennifery Murray's slightly off-color mother, Carlene, and give her a great big hug and apologize for being so mean to her baby girl.

The Horror, The Unspeakable Ghastly Horror

Doctor finds spiders in ear of boy with earache

Profanities are the only words that come to mind.

The Non Sequitur As Art

Boy, who did you play with at school today?

Andreas. But he thinks all dinosaurs are mean. But they're not. Because I know that some T rexes are nice. But not the ones with the angry eyes. They're mean. Because Axel is a little bit naughty. But I like to wear my blue socks to bed.


Boy, have you brushed your teeth yet?

Yup. Daddy helped me. But he used the green toothpaste. I like the green toothpaste. But the blue one has stars in it. Missy likes the stars. I like the stars too. But I ate oranges for lunch.


Boy, do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?

No.

When did you last go?

Just when I was just upstairs. And I lifted up the lid. And it was soooo heavy. But I'm strong. And big. But Lightning DeQueen is a boy. Not a girl. So he's a king. Not a queen. You're a queen. But I don't like Woody.


Oh no, Boy! Look at the size of that bruise. That must have hurt. How did you do that?

But I have to poop.


Boy! For the last time, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR PANTS!

But the sun makes my head hurt.


Boy, did you eat all your lunch today?

I did. But first I make the bread that is together into two. Then I eat all of the peanut butter. Then I make the ends in a line and I eat them too. But Andreas likes my dinosaur lunch box. Andreas is bigger than me. But he's still my friend. But Eefin is bigger than Finn because he is my cousin.

And your milk, Boy. Did you drink your milk?

No. I'm a little bit afraid crocodiles.


__________________________



Honest to God, this is why I drink.

No Gnews Is Good Gnews

Generally speaking, I don't like to spend too much time stewing over the heaping piles of moldering crap I read in the news everyday. I mean, there's only so many times you can say, "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" before you start to sound a little simple and slow on the uptake. They keep repeating themselves day after day after ever-loving day, so clearly, they're quite serious. I get that now. I accept it. I no longer allow myself to get too riled up about any of it.

Everyday, I read the headlines at CNN and The New York Times. I check a few of my favorite leftist-leaning, newsy type blogs for my daily dose of anit-Bush bile, followed by a disproportionate amount of time trolling the celebrity gossip rags for the truly griping news of the day. It's important to be informed, right enough. But knowing how the Supreme Court is positioning itself to reverse Roe v. Wade, or lamenting the lax gun laws that allowed a mentally ill student to purchase weapons that would be used in a senseless, shocking massacre doesn't get the kids fed, or the laundry folded. Alec Baldwin may be an ass, and the students at BYU may have a tougher brand of moxie than I had previously given them credit for, but EM's got homework and Missy hasn't pooped for two days, so best not to dwell on any of it too long.

And so it goes. Easy-peasy.

Until I happened upon this wee item: The Vanishing of the Bees (article).

I can't stop thinking about it. It's seriously freaking me out. I've lost sleep over the where, and the why, and the whatever could it mean of it. It's just not right. It MUST be explained! I mean !PEOPLE! They're just disappearing! Poof! Gone! So long, and thanks for all the pollen. Why?

But I read something today on one of the open threads at The Daily Kos that greatly put my mind at ease. I'd link to it directly, but I can't seem to find it again. I hope it's okay if I paraphrase here, because I don't want any of you to worry, as I have, over this perplexing and troubling apiary mystery. One wise contributor said:

They've been Raptured. We're left with the unbelievers.

Amen.