party in back

I wish I could take better pictures. But can you see what's going on here?

Excepting the two dread locks we've had to snip off this month, the bird dog has never had a haircut. We figure if it starts to bother him we'll do something about it, but the front is surprisingly well-behaved.

It makes me sad that I can't take better pictures. Have you seen Robin's blog? And Margie's? And Hilary's? And Chrys'? And Bethany's? And Ari's (people PAY her to take pictures!) They are all over there in my favorites. It's inspiring I tell you. Artistry.

I decided to stop reading One Hundred Years of Solitude after 200 pages. I rarely don't finish a book but it was oppressive and strange and I was having to force myself, which really defeats the purpose of recreational reading. I was validated when the other couple of girls who were reading it with me had made the same decision. Time is short, art is long. That's Longfellow I think. I picked up The Bell Jar last week and read it again. It's depressing, which, you know, isn't particularly surprising considering that even though it's supposed to be fiction, it is an almost totally autobiographical account of Sylvia Plath's suicidal descent. I think it's cheating to call a book fiction when all you do is change everyone's name and have a few composite characters. To her credit, she did originally publish it under a pseudonym to protect all involved. Then after she died it was republished under her real name. It always feels a little invasive to read books that are published after the author dies. John Kennedy Toole's mom found the manuscript of Confederacy of Dunces in his desk after he killed himself (writing is a happy, happy profession) and, though she had no real understanding of its merits, had the sense to send it to someone who did. Walker Percy, if I remember correctly. Anyway, now I am soothing myself with some Jane Austen. I wish there were more than six. Though I never seem to get tired of rereading them.

Well, it was Tuesday so I felt I really should post. That should be enough.

Glory days

We let Harper stay up a little past her bedtime to watch gymnastics a couple of nights ago. She has been talking about it for weeks so I found her response a little underwhelming actually. She watched the first floor exercise intently and, about halfway through it said, "They don't do gymnastics like I do gymnastics." I think what she meant is that most of "her" gymnastics is fairly limited to the ground, while theirs is mostly airborne. She went on, with a nonchalant air: "I used to do it like that, a long time ago." The husband and I barely contained our glee. "When did you do it like that, Harper?" he queried. She took a nice long pause, clearly searching the time-space continuum for that exact moment when she had actually been able to do a full twisting double back somersault into a punch front. "I did it like that," she finally explained patiently, "before Hudson was very tiny." Ohhh, way back then. She lost interest after about 15 minutes, which meant that I had to miss an entire rotation while I read her bedtime stories. I am TOTALLY LOVING the Olympics. Staying up way too late, weeping during national anthems (not just ours either--though I found Japan's rather uninspiring), pumping my fist all by myself (I mean SERIOUSLY did anyone see the ending of the 400 m freestyle relay?? Come ON. Lezak was SUPER human). I think I have mentioned before the rather ambivalent feelings I have toward Sport in general, but I am a sucker for this stuff.

The husband and I got to have a date Friday night so we missed the opening ceremony. I didn't care very much. We went to see "The Dark Knight." It was intense. It should really be titled "The REALLY, REALLY Dark Knight." I closed my eyes quite a bit because even the stylized violence was too much for me. But I thought it was a really well done movie. All of the press about Heath Ledger's performance is merited--he really is so bizarre and fascinating to watch.

So I saw a bumper sticker on Friday that made me think about the presidential election. It read:

CATS NOT KIDS

Now, here's the thing. Why is this lady not just okay with liking her cats? Why does she need to proclaim (and it really is a proclamation when you put it on your car) that not only does she choose to have cats, but she chooses to disparage having kids. I mean if you love something or someone, by all means extol its virtues, but why does something else have to be put down in the process? SO. This illustrates why I loathe negative campaigns. Why can't we just want to vote FOR someone because they have the positive attributes (or at least some of them) that we're looking for, instead of voting AGAINST someone who frightens us? Three long months until election day and I'm tired already.

Mr. Bean

I heard Hudson using his higher than normal pitched voice in the kitchen. He only uses this special voice when there are animals or insects to converse with so I was a little leery at what I might find. He was squatting down having a very animated discussion with an errant coffee bean that had fallen under the counter. He mistook it, I suppose, for a little bug friend. (The coffee bean, incidentally, came from Nicaragua, where our church has developed a relationship with some coffee farmers from whom they buy the beans directly. Fair trade at its most basic.) Here is the boy with Harper's new frog (with which, most surprisingly, she has been incredibly generous) wearing his new frog pj's:
In other Animal Related News, we had, when we first moved into the new place, a veritable tribe of rolly-pollies (sp?) roaming around. Most of them have moved out but there's one unfortunate little fellow, long dead, who has been laying on his back for several weeks right at the baseboard behind the rocking chair in Hudson's room. I don't know why I didn't dispose of him when I first noticed. The same reason I still haven't unpacked 75% of my closet, I suppose. Anyway, Harper discovered Dead Rolly Polly, only she refuses to believe that he is, in fact, dead. She has thought of all sorts of amusements and enticements to raise him from his eternal repose. She tries to persuade him to hop on the rocking horse for a wild ride. She leaves cars and books nearby. It's very sweet and more than a little sad.

Is anyone else a little creeped out by the enormous, tumor-like mass of seeds inside of bell peppers? We like bell peppers around here (red, orange, and yellow only--the green ones only the husband enjoys) but every time I cut one open I am a little frightened. What if the Bible verse said "faith like a bell pepper seed mass" instead of mustard seed? We'd all be in trouble.

I was an inveterate speeder most of my life. I was an appallingly bad driver in high school (passed the driving test on the THIRD try) but did not let that stop me from whizzing around at excessive speeds in my V-8 Camaro (I know, it's like a John Hughes movie). Then in college I got approximately 27 speeding tickets a year because for some reason it seemed terribly important to cut 15 minutes off of my drive time from Port Neches to College Station. I got a little better when I had to start paying for my own tickets and defensive driving, but I still sped, mostly because I was always running late to something. This changed when I had kids. Now I usually drive a little under the posted speed limit and, since I read in a Wall Street Journal article that I could save anywhere from 24 to 84 cents per gallon, I don't drive over 60 on the highway. This, it turns out, makes some other drivers Extremely Frustrated. I stay in the far right lane (feeling smug that instead of complaining about High Gas Prices!! I am actually doing something to alleviate part of the problem) and they fly past shaking their heads and their fists.

Latest cable indulgence: Jon and Kate Plus 8. This couple had twins then sextuplets, then they invited a camera crew to film their days. It's highly entertaining. Especially considering that tonight's network offerings included Wipeout!, Celebrity Family Feud, and I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Seriously? What poor sap had to call the advertisers on those gems?

magical realism

I just started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude with the book club girls. Mr. Marquez utilized something called magical realism, which translates into everything sort of going along normally and then, for example, some kids will ride by the window on a magic carpet that the gypsies brought to town. I also have an A.W. Tozer collection on my nightstand. It's been a long time since I've read anything of his, but I seem to remember that he writes in a realm of magical realism as well. The Abolition of Man is a bit of a trudge. I need to read the first section again to cement it before I move on.

Produce most likely to break your heart? The avocado. I don't like them AT ALL (I think it's the texture) but everyone else in my family strenuously disagrees. So I pick up approximately 817 different avocados before eventually purchasing two (at $2.49 each for organic) that feel exactly as they should, supposedly. Then I plan an entire evening meal around them only to cut them open and find an oily, rotting mess. Or sometimes, they will look fine when you first cut them open so you will begin to feed them to your children but then your child who is old enough to discern when something isn't quite right will say, "Mommy, the avocado tastes funny," only by then you've already shoveled half of it into your other child's mouth and then he will have terrible, unspeakable diapers for two entire days and nights.

Have you ever wondered why you meet people named Christian but never anyone named Muslim? Or Jew. Or Hindu. Or B'hai. Interesting, no?

I told Harper she was no longer allowed to use the Stinky Defense as a reason to steer clear of Hudson. Yesterday she was working on something at the kitchen table and he wandered over within a couple of feet and her face contorted and she started making this coughing, gasping sound. What's the problem? I ask. "I want my NOSE.. PROTECTED!!!" she wailed, as if an actual skunk had just sprayed his skunkness directly into her nasal canals. Again, I state wearily for the record: there was no offending smell emanating at that particular moment.

widdle wizard

You'll notice we've been spending lots of time at my parents' lately. Harper and Hudson LOVE their grandparents and I love that their house provides a fantastic, shaded backyard replete with a swing, an inflatable baby pool, a slip-n-slide AND wildlife galore. One morning a tiny lizard wandered in and tried to take a shower with me so we rounded him up and kept him in this little bug holder for the rest of the day. Harper had made lots of plans for her future with her widdle wizard but handled it really well when I told her we'd have to set him free to go find his mommy and brothers and sisters. Hudson summoned up his every last ounce of Brave and got in the pool with Grandfather close at hand.
We haven't called the Olympic Swimming Committee Scouting Team just yet, but perhaps there is a glimmer of hope.

I had an idea once back in the day when I had lots of time and fairly discretionary income that I might take a few months off and outfit some sort of vehicle (a la Mr. Steinbeck in the aforementioned Travels with Charley) in which I'd travel across the country taking photos of the stuff churches put on their signs out front. Then the plan was to go inside the church and ask the first person I met a simple question. Something along the lines of, "Can you tell me why I should believe in Jesus?" My hope was that the person would actually give me a real answer from personal experience and not try to usher me into the pastor's office. I remembered my little plan as I was driving out of Port Arthur and spotted a sign that was rather shocking. My guess would be that whoever was in charge of Clever Sign Messages at this little church actually had no idea that there was a double entendre worthy of 1970's era Richard Pryor embedded in what they probably thought was just a funny little saying. I just can't write it here on this family friendly blog but instead I'll give you one from my parents' church a few months back:

BE YE FISHERS OF MEN....
You catch 'em, He'll clean 'em!

Comment tally (vous?)

I just got back from a few internet free days at the grandparents only to realize that blogspot decided, apparently, that the last post wouldn't be commented upon. Perhaps benevolent blogspot, in all its prescience, was trying to save me from some vitriol. If you wanted to comment, do it here, and we'll give you credit on the last post. If not, there's a real post coming tomorrow.

Praise, praise the Fear

When Harper likes something, she really really likes it for a long time. Like pumpkins. And "All Creatures of Our God and King." She was singing with gusto in the backseat yesterday and got to the line, "Praise, praise the Father! Praise the Son! Praise, praise the Spirit, three in one!" only she sang it "Praise, praise the Fear it's green and white!!" I think I'll keep letting her sing it that way. I'm not quite ready to attempt to explain the trinity.

Speaking of green, I finally finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle a few weeks ago. It definitely made me want to try to buy foods that are grown locally, and to eat foods in their proper season. (those apples you can get now? likely from a different hemisphere) It will also really make you want a garden. Not an option for us at the moment, but a goal for Someday. The most depressing thing I discovered is that the bananas that my kids eat (pretty much every single day) , though they only cost me around 70 cents a pound, actually cost around $7 million dollars to get from whatever Central American country they were grown in to Houston. That's a slight hyperbole. Take home lesson: the wide variety of food that we enjoy, cheaply, year around IS expensive, just not in a way that troubles us on a daily basis. I don't want to be obsessed, but I do want to be mindful. So. The book is probably not quite as preachy as this paragraph has been and there is a hilarious section detailing the author's attempt to get her heritage turkeys to breed. One of them falls briefly in love with her husband.

Hudson got some new big boy shoes today. Size 5.
You see how proud he is. He really likes the shoes, really did NOT like the shoe buying. Apparently when I told him, "Hudson, this lady is going to put the shoes on you to see if they fit," he actually heard, "Hudson, this lady is going to cut OFF your FEET," because he burst into tears and buried his face in my neck and refused to be consoled throughout the entire process.

Speaking of 5, Harper has decided that it is the magical age at which all of her dreams will come true. So far:
1. When I am five I will jump in the swimming pool BY MYSELF!
2. When I am five I will go to gymnastic school! and, my favorite:
3. When I am five I will get a bagpipe! (with which she will, presumably, play a rousing version of "All Creatures of Our God and King)