Lost in the Din

The office is so quiet, so hushed, but a clamor in my head pervades the stillness, not jarring, like the faint creak of a door at the edge of an afternoon nap, but incessant, like the faraway buzzing of a halogen light.

Four years. Four years they’ve gone while I’ve stayed. Four years they’ve played while I’ve worked. Four years they’ve reconnected while I’ve disconnected. Four years.

If I admit I can’t get used to this, will the restlessness subside, or will I lose myself in the din?

The Wonkerers *updated

(If the video below doesn’t work for you, click HERE for some serious Wonkerering.)

We weren’t allowed to video tape TD’s musical, Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka, (what is UP with that?! HUH?!) but hey! Who needs to tape the show from waaaaay back in the audience, when one’s kiddos have memorized the whole darn thing anyway, and commandeer the family computer for an afternoon to capture the entire show– up close and personal– for posterity? Not me, that’s who!

So, yeah. I have no actual tape of Tanner performing on stage as Charlie, but I have him (and his sisters) performing every other role in the musical– with FEELING, no less… so FOOYAH!

Yup. Feel free to take a quick peek at what it’s been like at MY house for the past five months.

Enjoy.

Think Positive

Is it normal for me to be MORE nervous than TD? He’s the one singing all of Charlie Bucket’s songs and performing all of Charlie Bucket’s lines in the 6th grade Willy Wonka Jr. musical tonight! It’s out of control!

I’m a wreck, that’s what I am… A wreck, I say!

Aaaaaand TD just rushed by me, belting out “Think Positive,” complete with wild gesticulations that I certainly hope are a part of the choreography. Because if not? EMBARRASSING.

“You’ve nothing to lose so why not choose to think positive?”

Well all righty then. I’m off to the show.

And TD? Break a leg, kid.

Aerosmithsonian

When you’ve been together a while, it’s bound to happen. You know, the whole ending each other’s sentences thing? Accordingly, one shouldn’t be surprised by the following conversation I recently had with the DWM padres who have traveled all the way from Podunky Small Town Arizona to see Numbah One Grandson (Yeah-huh! Okay, Numbah TWO Grandson… happy Kim?! SHEESH.) in his musical theater debut as Charlie Bucket in Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka Junior Ramma Lamma Bing Bang Extravaganza!

Do you follow?

So we were sitting down, having a nice little chat, when my dad leaned over my mother to ask if it would be difficult to get into DC to visit some places.

I asked, “Where do you want to go?” while mentally conjuring the Metro transit rail map.

“Well, I wanted to go to the Smithsonian…” he began.

Ah. See, there is a common misconception out there in the aether that the Smithsonian is one particular building in DC. This is not, in fact, the case. Let’s see…. you’ve got the more well-known Natural History Museum (check out the Hope Diamond!), the Air and Space Museum (ooooh! IMAX and Planetarium!), the National Portrait Gallery (don’t step too close to some of the exhibits… the sensors are freaking sensitive) and let’s not forget the National Zoo (Giant Pandas! Giant Pandas!). Then, of course, you’ve got your American Indian Museum, African Art Museum, your Postal Museum… and quite few more that I am much too lazy to look up, so there.

It’s evil I know, all show-offy and whatnot, but of course I asked, “Which one?”, and blinked innocently at the confused look on my dad’s face.

To his credit, I think he must have remembered my lecture on the Great Smithsonian Conundrum (yes! I’m a horrible geek! duh!) because he was only fazed for a moment.

“I wanted to see–”

And then it happened. The finishing each other’s sentences thing. (See? I’m focused! HA!)

My mom leaned over and butted in– er, interrupted– I mean, lovingly finished his thought, “Oh! He wants to go see the Aerosmith Museum!”

I blinked again, but this time in confusion. “The Aero…Smith… what?”

There was one of those pauses where it is completely silent except for the almost perceptible sound of cogs whirring and twirling in the collective brains of those assembled. As my dad and I began to snicker, my mom blurted out, “Oh! Air and Space! Air and Space!”

But it was too late. Oh, yes. Much too late.

My dad grinned. “Yeah, hon, I really wanted to hit that rock and roll museum… see all that rock star memorabilia?”

“Oh, sure! I’ll tell you how to get there! Just walk this waaaaaaay! talk this waaaay!”

My mom, adopting her patented I Totally Meant To Say That blasé attitude, was all, “Oh, you knew what I meant!” And just in case that wasn’t enough to save face, she quickly added, “Although an Aerosmith Museum would be pretty cool, come to think of it…”

My dad and I gave her a hard time of it for a few more minutes, after which I assured my father that I would make sure he got to see the Air and Space Museum.

Then I launched into my Smithsonian Conundrum spiel one more time for good measure, naturally.

Aaaaaaand now you know me better. You see? I can’t help how I am. It’s like the magnet my parents had on their refrigerator as I was growing up:

“Insanity is hereditary. I get it from my children.”

Wait… Hey!

More Riding in Cars with 3rd Grade Drama Queens

We now join the post-kiss-and-ride-pickup conversation of a desperate working momma and drama queen daughter, already in progress:

“It was a good day… except, do you know what so-and-so thinks is a good insult, Momma? He says,” here Alli adopted a gruff schoolboy’s tone, “‘Your grandma’s butt!’”

I threw a quick, raised-eyebrow look at her. “Huh,” I said as I signaled and pulled into the jam of after-school traffic. “That’s kind of a stupid thing to say.”

Alli snorted. “I know. Me and Hannah think a good thing to say would be, ‘I’m sorry. We need an interpreter. We don’t speak idiot.’”

Wow. I didn’t even teach her that one! “Nice one,” I said, throwing a quick glance of motherly pride her way.

A proud smile crossed her face, but almost as quickly as it came, it wavered. “Of course then he’d probably hurl a rock at me, or something, huh, Momma?”

I pictured so-and-so in my head for a moment. “There is that possibility,” I finally agreed.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled mischievously. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak idiot!” she said with a giggle.

I suppose she figured the satisfaction would be worth the risk.

That’s my girl.

Leap of Faith… Redux

I recently stumbled across the following post, which I wrote way, waaaay back in May of ‘05. In all honesty, it made my heart hurt a little to re-read it. Who knew I could be introspective and poignant? Sometimes? Okay, I may have even teared up a bit. Just a little! I know, right? Me? BIG BABY. Deal with it. Re-reading the post also inspired in me a wicked craving for a donut. Go figure.

In any event, I thought I would share. Or, rather, re-share. Share again? Whatev. You know what I’m saying.

_______________________________

I have no desire to be enigmatic.

But it is a scary place, my mind. Crowded with jumbled imagery and intricate stories and trivial pop culture references, with nowhere to go. All of the craziness shuffles and scuffles to be forefront in my mind, to be most important. To be first. “Let me out!” it all screams, because it has to go somewhere, right?

Sometimes, when I read a book or I see a movie, I catch the mood of the piece, and I cannot shake it. I am there, and woe unto any who try to break in, to find me. I am in it, and only I can find my way back out. I am not even sure if that makes sense, but it is most definitely the case.

I mean, I know other people can read a book and put it down. Me? I read the fifth Harry Potter book in one night. ONE NIGHT! That freaking book is over 800 pages long! Honestly. It can take me literally hours to stop worrying about the characters in which I have invested my time. I feel their pain, their joy, their despair, their triumphs. If the book is particularly well-done, if the characters are alive, if the mood is fully realized, then it can take me hours to stop feeling the book. To let go of it.

Other people can watch a particularly riveting television show or movie and walk away thinking, “Huh. Good show! What’s for dinner?” Me? I become emotionally invested in the characters. I will obsess about their lives and the “what if’s” for days on end. Weeks, even. Now do not misunderstand. This is not to say I cannot separate the fictional characters from reality. No worries. I absolutely can. What I cannot do, not right away, anyway, is to stop thinking about their stories. Taking them in new directions. I will spend hours weaving new stories for them. Sometimes I even dream new stories. But Leonardo da Vinci said, The eye sees a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination awake. Dude was a wise Renaissance man, yo?

Which leads me to this: when I write stories? Oh BOY. I am SO living them. And it is so exciting! I get to be someone else! Well, for a little while, anyway. I become Goddess of the Story Universe! Bow to me! Then, inevitably, my characters begin growing and acting out in ways I had not intended, and I just get to go with it, and it is GOOD. Of course, I think this is why I enjoy happy ending so much, formulaic cliche be damned. I need them, or I am lost. Then again, my endings are not always happy. And I absolutely hate that, because I ache for my characters. But I love it, too.

For a long time I thought this craziness had a name. I HAD to give it a name. I was surely bipolar. Manically depressed. Obviously. It was the only explanation for the mood swings, the black days, the deep-rooted dark despair that settled into my mind and would not let go. Right? And what sane, happy person loses herself in television and books? Huh? Normal people with three beautiful kids and TGIM don’t act this way, right? Am I RIGHT?! I hated my career choice, my living situation, my life, and I could not shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly WRONG with me, because everyone I knew insisted I should be happy, that I should be thankful, that I should just STOP wallowing and get on with living. And I wanted to. I WANTED TO. But I was stuck. So I turned to the happy pills. But the drugs? They did not help. Dispassionateness, for me, was not a cure. It was a bandage.

“You are just like my ex-husband,” my sister said to me. “You can be anything you want to be. Anything but happy.”

Oh, no she DIDN’T.

So I ripped it off that bandage. And I made CHANGES.

I found a job writing and quit my teaching job. I packed up and moved all the way across the United States, not sure when and if TGIM would follow, but sure it was the right thing to do. I began expressing the jumbled imagery, intricate ideas, and trivial pop culture references swirling about in my mind through the magical world of blogging. I made new friends. I discovered the words “job satisfaction” were not mutually exclusive. I pulled myself out of the rut of complacency and fear in which I was trapped and made some personally earth-shattering decisions regarding what I wanted out of life. And, yes, I hurt TGIM and others close to me in the process and, yes, almost lost everything. I know that. I OWN that. But these days? I’m starting to feel as if despite the excruciating pain I caused myself and others, I have gained everything.

TGIM thinks this is The Crazy in me. Sometimes he loves me for it, sometimes… not so much. Me? I am starting to believe The Crazy is simply the artistic temperament in me. And, slowly, oh so slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it, to hone it, to bend it to my infinite megalomaniacal will, mwah ha ha ha!…

Sorry.

The other day I stumbled across a quote by Edvard Munch, the artist formerly known as the man who painted The Scream. Okay, he is still known as that, I just like the allusion to Prince. Because Prince ROCKS. Anywhos, Munch wrote of the experience he had which triggered the creation of this masterpiece:

I was out walking with two friends - the sun began to set - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an endless scream passing through nature.

As I read this I realized, hey, sometimes I sense that Endless Scream, too. I hear it! I KNOW it. And, slowly, I am learning to embrace it. I am learning how to USE it. I know, I know. Inscrutable, much? Talk to my family. But, then again, if I did not see the world this way, if I did not feel the world this way, how could I write? And writing? Makes me feel complete. Utterly, dizzyingly complete.

Well, writing, and a big ol’ cinnamon cake donut. Yummmmmm.

Take that, big sister. I CAN be happy.

Driving in Cars with Kiddos

Sometimes big thoughts hit you during small moments.

For whatever reason, my kiddos and I were talking about the city that lives underneath Disneyland, full of offices and tunnels and security and employees making their way across the park without having to brave the crowds. I believe the Mickey Mouse Jail is underground, too. Not that I’ve ever been in it. But, hey, I know people who have, so HA!

“Hey, Momma, wouldn’t it be fun to live underground?”

Before I could say anything, Tanner butted in to say exactly what I was thinking. “No way,” he replied. “Everyone would be all grumpy and depressed…”

“Exactly,” I interjected, imagining a world full of people stricken with seasonal affective disorder due to sun deprivation.

“… until we evolved.”

Okay, I wasn’t thinking that last part.

“Evolved?” Allison repeated, her eyebrows going all wrinkly.

Tanner turned around in his seat to look at Allison who sat behind him in the middle row of our car. “Yeah,” he said, with that twelve-year-old air of confidence and superiority sixth-graders have before they go off to junior high and have it squashed out of them. “Then? We’ll lose our eyes and have to find our way around by echolocation.”

Okay, I wasn’t thinking that part either.

I could see in the rearview mirror that Allison’s eyebrows had flown up into her hairline as her eyes widened to enormous proportions behind her glasses.

Tanner, never one to miss an opportunity to showboat, cupped his hand to the side of his mouth and stage-whispered, “And then we become FISH!”

Allison gasped. Hannah snickered from the very back seat of the car, then continued reading the book that had miraculously kept her out of the conversation up to this point.

I looked over at Tanner–torn between reproving him for freaking out his sister or giving him props for his correct usage of sweet words such as “evolve” and “echolocation”– but before I could say anything he smiled smugly at his littler sister and said, “But don’t worry. Evolving would take years.”

I cleared my throat.

“Millions of years,” Tanner amended.

Allison’s tense little body sagged with relief. “I guess it wouldn’t be fun to live underground after all, huh, Momma,” she said.

“I guess not,” I replied, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. Then I turned to glance at Tanner, with what I hoped was a stern look on my face. “Echolocation?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Fish?”

Tanner shrugged and smiled, then turned away to look out the window.

Echolocation, I murmured to myself, amused. Evolution. I ever-so-slyly stole a look at my son, and suddenly, in that small moment, the big thought struck. We may have millions of years underground before we evolve into freaky, sightless, echolocating fish, but my son appears to be evolving right before my eyes into more and more of a handsome young man than my sweet little buddy boy.

And that quickly, evolution didn’t seem all that funny anymore.

“Echolocation!” Hannah piped up from the back seat as she slammed shut her book. “Like bats!” she added with a giggle.

At that, I burst out laughing. Because honestly. Echolocation? Still funny.

Conversation Over B-Day Breakfast for TD

by Guest Blogger TGIM

Scene: Family of five, two adults, one rugged twelve-year old boy and two young girlie-girls. All sitting down, waiting for breakfast to be served.

Man to Rugged Boy: “Son, would you like to go to the sporting goods store and check out some pocketknives?”

Girlie Girl #1: “Ooh, I want a pocketknife!”

Girlie Girl #2: “Hey, can I have a knife too?!”

Rugged Boy (with slightly sheepish smile): “Um, yeah… do you think we could go to the craft store instead?”

Woman to all: “Wow.”

End Scene.

Oh, Snap!

Allison dragged me over to the dream home she had constructed for her Polly Pocket using an empty paper box, a pair of heavy duty scissors, assorted colored pencils, and some seriously stellar eight-year-old ingenuity.

“Momma, look, ” she instructed, flourishing at the box with a red colored pencil she had evidently put to work covering the outside of Polly’s new home with meticulously crafted bricks. “Check it out!”

Mentally tallying how many hours before TGIM tripped over Polly’s dream home one too many times and condemned it to tear down status, I said, “Ooh, uh-huh.” Hey! With motherly pride! Step off me!

“Well?” she asked, her face lit with eagerness and pride in ownership. “What do you think of Polly Pocket’s new briiiiiiiiiick… hooouuuuse?”

I ruffled her hair playfully. “It’s mighty mighty,” I replied, almost without thought. “Now Polly can let it all hang out.”

We stood there, mother and daughter, admiring Polly Pocket’s Dream Home in artistic and Motown solidarity. After a moment we went our separate ways, each of us humming and singing “She’s a briiiiiick… hoooouse…” under our breath and jiving to the beat. What can I say?

That’s just how we roll at the DWM house.

“Momma, can I read to you?”

Alli stood at my left shoulder, resting her chin on the back of my chair to peek at whatever it was on my computer screen that held my attention. I could feel her there, fidgety and anxious, waiting as patiently as she knew how until I finished typing. Her warm breath tickled my neck, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the computer (these days it is always the computer) to give her a smile, and that is when it happened. That is when I saw her.

Really saw her.

Of course you saw her, dipstick, you think to yourself. You were looking right at her. And you’d be right, of course, except for the “dipstick” part, because that is just plain rude. I looked at her. Of course I looked at her. But it was what I saw that startled me.

I’m not going to spout any hackneyed verbiage about seeing her “with new eyes” or “for the first time.” Nor will I wax allegorical about seeing beyond the outward appearance of those around us. Nope. It was simpler than that. I wasn’t seeing her anew; I was just… seeing her. Her sea green eyes, one magnified by a coke bottle lens, but both shining up at me, full of depth and warmth. The freckle on her chin. The wisps of unruly hair that danced around her hairline, escaped from the confines of her ponytail. The sweet little nose. The determined tilt of her chin, seemingly at odds with the amiable set of her lips. The almost palpable energy radiating from her body as her excitement and vitality threatened to spill over, to overwhelm me with, just… her, all of her, even as she struggled for composure.

She was so beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, yet so very real. I literally ached with the beauty of her. All of her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spunky little mini-me with glasses and a propensity for chattering simply for chattering’s sake. I don’t know how else to say it. She was just… herself.

And it was breathtaking.

Alli shook my shoulder. “Mom? Momma?” She peered into my eyes, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.

Just a moment had gone by–seconds, really–but I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, absolutely spent, as if I’d been traveling for weeks in some far off place and I was finally returning home. Trying to get my bearings.

I blinked a few times, fast, winking away any tears that dared to escape. I showed my tear ducts who’s boss, so to speak. “Yes, sweetie?” I finally answered.

“I love you.”

Now, I know for a fact that she had been about to ask me, “Can I read to you?” Because that is what she always asks when her homework is finished and she needs to read for twenty minutes for her reading log. But she changed the program.

“I love you, too,” I replied, then pulled her into my arms for a hug.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “Momma?” she asked as she gently disentangled herself from my arms, arms which may or may not have been holding her a teensy bit too tightly.

“Hmm…?”

“Can I read to you?”

After a momentary glitch, we were back to our regularly scheduled program. All was well in the world.

But now, as I think back to that moment, I can’t help but wonder if Alli veered off-script because at that moment, that exact moment when she looked into my eyes… she saw me, too.

Driving in Cars With Drama Queens

We now join a conversation “between” Alli and Momma in the DWM car, already in progress…

“…and it wasn’t even a big deal, it was just one little mistake– are you listening, Momma?– but they wouldn’t let me help and we were getting graded on cooperation and stuff, so I told the teacher I wanted to help but they wouldn’t let me– and that’s not cooperating, is it, Momma?– I mean, it’s not my fault they lost points because we were supposed to cooperate, and it was just, like, one point or something, but then she was all like, ‘What’s that all about?! You ruined our grade!’ and she got all worked over and stuff and she told the other girls not to play with me at recess– which is so rude, huh, Momma?– and then guess what? She started to cry.”

“Wow,” I replied as I flicked my turn signal blinker and glanced over my shoulder at my blind spot. “Lots of drama in the third grade, huh?”

“I know! I mean, she got so worked over, Momma! For one teensy little mistake! And it was pretty much their own fault, anyway, if you ask me, so, you know…”

I merged into the right lane. “Well, hopefully by next week your project partner will have forgotten all about this.”

“Yeah.” Alli sighed heavily. “Man… what a drama queen.”

Feeling Saucy

Look how tall my gals are getting to be! Shazam!

Hannah (birthday girl! woot!) and Alli are feeling quite saucy today, bee tee dub, due to some seriously sassy straightened hair! Now some of you may know of the curly-haired gal’s secret pining for stick straight hair, with blunt cut bangs and no fear of frizz, and by golly, today these two little girls were living the dream!

Well, except their hair isn’t quite STICK straight, there is nary a bang in sight, and a little humidity would poof those hairdos right the hell out, but whatever! STRAIGHT HAIR! On Hannah and Alli! It’s like, a miracle or something. A birthday miracle!

No, I’m not tearing up… there’s just a speck of dirt in my eye…

Pet Store Shenanigans

Pet stores. Exciting for the kiddos, smelly to the momma, and oh-so educational. For EVERYBODY.

The other night we were in the vicinity of the pet store, so we threw caution to the wind and went to torture ourselves by looking at the most adorable kittens and puppies and other allergen-riddled mammals (and some way creepy non-mammals) that we can never ever buy, not even in a million years, as my kids will tell you, “Thanks to Mom and her stupid allergies that could totally kill her, GOSH!” But they’re not bitter. They love me.

So, we browsed the store, marveling at the gecko’s eyes, giggling over the mice-in-the-wheel shenanigans, and freaking out over the ssslithering ssslinkiness of the snakes. As we approached the cockatiel cage, a favorite stop of my kiddos, we inadvertently stumbled upon an intimate moment between the two cockatiel residents.

Now, listen… I don’t care what anyone says, NOBODY wants to watch these pet store animals get their freak on. They’re shameless exhibitionists, openly exulting in braggy displays of unrestrained lust– all, “Oooh! Look at me! Look at me!” (and often in positions that put the Kama Sutra to shame)– displays which everyone knows are not appropriate for public and/or mixed company, and it’s exposed and embarrassing and gross, like karaoke.

But I digress.

“Oh, my,” said Hannah, pausing for one infinitesimal moment before hurrying past the cage, an embarrassed grin slowly spreading across her face.

“What?” Alli asked before looking into the cage. “Ooooh! Look! That one’s giving the other one a piggyback ride!”

Tanner and Hannah snorted.

“She doesn’t know,” Tanner said, turning away from the cage.

“Yeah, she doesn’t,” Hannah agreed.

But Alli was having none of it. She stood there, a thoughtful expression on her face as she shifted her attention between her grinning and increasingly red-faced siblings and the busy little caged birdies.

Thankful for at least one child with a shred of farmyard innocence, I began to shoo my kids toward the exit. Before we made it two steps, however, TGIM wandered over from the aquarium section of the store.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Okay. FINE. I giggled (because… dirty!) but only in my head. Duh. I have filters! Most of the time!

“Look, Daddy!” Hannah said, pointing at the cage.

So TGIM looked. Then looked again. It was one of those amusing little television moments where you could practically hear the double-take sound effect.

Then TGIM looked at me, and his eyes did that yelling thing, you know, where they are all, “Um, hello? Cat? WHAT the…?!” Like somehow I encouraged the birds to go for a quickie during store hours! Whatever. My eyes told his eyes to just STEP OFF.

Suddenly, Alli turned away from the cage, and in an ah-HA! tone of voice exclaimed, “Oh, I know! They’re mating!”

“Giddyup, little horsey!” Hannah blurted out, pitching Tanner into a fit of the giggles.

You know how you do that thing when you are trying not to laugh at something your child says because you aren’t quite sure whether or not it would be appropriate to encourage said child in questionable expressions of humor? You know, that thing? With the trying not to laugh? TGIM and I were doing that thing. Well, attempting to do that thing, anyway.

Hey, don’t judge. You weren’t there. You don’t know.

We turned to leave. Hannah grabbed her red-faced daddy’s hand and skipped alongside him as we headed out the doors and into the parking lot. “Hey, did you see the smiles on the birdies’ faces, Daddy?” she asked.

Tanner– trailing behind the two– scoffed at her ignorance. “Birds don’t smile.”

“Those ones were. Did you see, Daddy?! Those were happy birdies!”

“Okay, now you’re just embarrassing me,” TGIM said and determinedly changed the subject. To dessert ideas, I think, which… brilliant?!

But at my side, I felt a gentle tug on my arm. I looked down at Alli, who grabbed my hand with her little one and said in an innocent, confiding little voice, “Well, that sure looked like an awkward way to mate, didn’t it Momma?!”

In an instant, sure knowledge of impending adolescence (times three!) struck me and wrestled the air from my lungs more quickly than that time my big sister slammed her end of the see-saw down so violently it launched me up and off… and down. THUNK.

Can’t…! breathe…! I remember thinking back then. I thought the same now.

I choked back the breathlessness. I powered through. There was time yet. Still time.

“Oh, absolutely,” was all I replied, as I squeezed her hand. “Absolutely.”

TechnoGeekery Quickies and Other Random Stuff

So, another TG Quickie coming at’cha:

TechnGeekery Quickie #5: Chores and Allowance… Taking it Techno

In this quick episode I discover that tiny mints and newly-applied lip gloss do not mix. Among other things, naturally.

In other news, TGIM came across this very familiar-looking verification code as he was surfing Ticketmaster for tickets to some– oh, I don’t know, sporting event of some sort, I guess?– so he got all excited (a little too excited if you ask me, come to think of it) and took a screenshot and shot it on over to me via email, all “Look! Look! Look what I came across! Kelly would like it because she’s awesome and I love her and did you read her blog today because she is so SO funny and hilarious and man IwishyouweremorelikeKellybecauseshe’ssoawesome, so check it out!” But maybe I might have hyperbole-ed up that last part, but he may as well have said it because it is what he MEANT. Don’t think I don’t know it. Because I know.

What? Oh! The verification code! Right. Focused now.

(click to enlarge)

Gosh, Kelly, even Ticketmaster has a thing for you.

Oh, and speaking of hyperbole, I NEED this t-shirt. Like… NOW, please:

A Special Holiday Message

( I couldn’t let this beautiful season pass without expressing a heartfelt message of holiday cheer. So… yah. Here it is. Music in this podcast provided by the Podsafe Music Network, with Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Dokken. Yes, I said DOKKEN.)

Ha, ha, ha! Merry Christmas, everyone! HA, HA, HA!

Oh… didn’t you hear? In Australia, street Santas are being encouraged to replace “ho ho ho!” with “ha ha ha!” You know, because all that deep “ho ho ho!”-ing scares the children? Not to mention the blatant sexist connotations inherent in the traditional phraseology?

Then again, potentially any large man in a red velvet suit with a scraggly white beard could scare the everlovin’ bejeebies out of a child, especially when said child is coerced into sitting on the man’s lap while “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake!” blares in the background.

But that is totally beside the point. Belting out “ho ho ho!” at all those unsuspecting children? All they want is a candy cane, after all. That could damage a child’s psyche, that’s all I’m saying.

Yup. Leave it to Oz to straighten out Santa Claus and his Eurocentric, closed-minded, rigid value judgments. I mean, ‘ho’? And what about ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’? Hello? Who is he to say?! Huh? This is the 21st century, Santa. We don’t burden children with labels that could damage their self-esteem. We prefer “obedience-challenged” or “potentially disruptive on a large scale.” And EVERYONE gets a present. But I digress.

So, the family and I just finished singing a rousing chorus of ‘Rudolph the Differently-abled Reindeer-American,’ which is one of our favorite Holiday Ballads of Strictly Secular Joy. Those are always fun this time of year! Good times!

Aw, I kid. Kidding! My family and I are in fact quite full of the holiday spirit and are feeling extraordinarily thankful for the blessings we have received this year.

Speaking of blessings…

Top Ten Lambson Moments of 2007

10. Buying Guitar Hero and rocking out as a family. Need I say more?

9. Allison discovering acronyms, and-after hearing that I made bran muffins-skipping along behind me and happily yelling out for all the neighborhood to hear “Yay! Mom, Come on! Let’s go eat a BM!”

8. Hannah telling Tanner she loved him, just out of the blue, then-after Aaron and I finished cooing, “Aw!” and “How sweet!”-shrugging and admitting, “Yeah… that was an awkward moment.”

7. Breaking up with American Idol so we could have those three nights per week of our lives back.

6. Making wedding videos and Public Service Announcement vidcasts with the kiddos. Just for the heck of it.

5. Hannah yelling, “Momma! Swinging with the wind rushing over my toes is my favorite way to swing! (flinging hair as if she were the Breck Girl) With the wind in my hair!… While wearing a skort!”

4. Allison proudly showing off her new gerbil, then announcing, “One of them I thought had babies, but it was actually only his tentacles.” Then, after our explosion of laughter, insisting, “No! I’m not kidding, guys! Those tentacles were HUGE!”

3. Scoring an interview with actor Michael Muhney (AKA: Sheriff Lamb)-from my favorite TV show Veronica Mars-for my sleeper hit vidcast, Veronica Mars REWIND, (Michael Muhney says I “rock”… Booyah!)

2. Tanner auditioning for and WINNING the lead part of Charlie in his school’s musical production of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka.

1. Crawling into bed at the end of the day and cuddling up with a novel, smooshed between my kiddos–smelling of playground sweat and sunshine–eagerly devouring novels of their own, the only sound the whisper of turning pages, the rustle of blankets, and occasional bursts of laughter followed by silly passages read aloud for all to enjoy. No television. No phone. No computer. No radio. Just my kids and me tucked away from the world, immersed in worlds of our own… together.

And I mean this… happy holidays, y’all.

The Blue Sparkly Dress and TechnoGeekery

And I mean this… CUTE. Aaaaaw. The infamous Blue Sparkly Dress. Sewed by Grandma Sue and the cause of much joy and contention amongst my kiddos. Oh, the good times Tanner had in that dress…! But that is a story for another time.Regardless, I repeat… so, SO cute. I’ve been on a digi-scrapping spree for the past week or so, frantically scrambling to get some super-duper top-secret Christmas presents taken care of, and this is the result of my practice removing picture backgrounds using the”Instant Alpha” feature in iWork Pages. I tell you what, y’all… digi-scrapping? Totally addictive! NOT. KIDDING. Nope. Not even one little bit of kid. Er, -ding. Kidding.Also, a new TechnoGeekery Quickie is up:TechnoGeekery Quickie #3: Reach Out and iPod Touch SomeoneThere is good music! By Waltham! The band! For real! Check it OUT!Phew. I’m exhausted from all that exclaiming.

Ear Infections, Flu Bugs, and Stress… Oh MY!

Sick Kids + Sick Momma + Too Many Things I Feel Unnecessarily Compelled To Do = NO FUN AT ALL!

Just sayin’.

In other news, TechnoGeekery Show #11: Google Calendar… and SMS Commands is up at TechnoGeekery.com. I had originally planned for it to be a TechnoGeekery Quickie, but as can sometimes happen, the Quickie turned into a… you know… Longie.

My bad.

Oh, CRAP!

Nooooooooooooooooooooooo! What does this MEAN?! How shall I COPE?!

Must! Have! TV!

That being said, the following is a faithful re-telling of a fellow soccer momma’s “Oh, crap!” moment, thanks to her five-year-old daughter and her mad rhyming skillz:

FADE IN:

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD SOCCER FIELD - MORNING - ESTABLISHING

Lawn chairs and coolers dot soccer fields in a well-kept suburban neighborhood, where soccer moms, bleary-eyed coaches, and autumn leaves litter the dusty, trampled-down grass fields.

EXT. SIDELINES - MORNING

Parents, siblings, and the occasional family pet clutter up the sidelines of a soccer game in progress. It’s the final game of the season. Shouts and whistles can be heard in the background as MOTHER, 30-ish, is attempting to watch the game and entertain her DAUGHTER, 5– an energetic little girl sporting pigtails, OshKosh B’Gosh, and some serious attitude– by playing the rhyming game.

MOTHER
…okay, now how about a word
that rhymes with “new”?
Starts with “m”?

DAUGHTER
Moo!

MOTHER
Good! How about an “b”?

DAUGHTER
Boo!

MOTHER
Okay, let’s try another word.
How about a word that rhymes
with “me”?

A cheer erupts from the sidelines as one of the Stingrays kicks a goal.

DAUGHTER
(distracted)
…um…

MOTHER
I love to drink this…
(no answer)
I drink it all the time…
(still nothing)
Okay, listen:
“I drink coffee, I drink…”

DAUGHTER
(triumphant)
WINE!

Stifled laughter erupts from parents in the vicinity.

MOTHER
(suddenly defensive)
No!
(then)
Okay, yes, honey, sometimes I drink
wine. Um… why don’t you go see Daddy
for a few minutes? Good girl…

And… SCENE.

I know, right?

BEST. RHYMING GAME. EVER.

Global Warming: It’s the Cows, Not Us

Over lunch, TD turned to me and stated, all conversational-like, “Momma, I really don’t get the big deal about global warming.”

“Oh, okay, well–” I started, gearing up for my “will life on the planet survive the eco-destructive tendency of humans” conversation (which… DUH!), but my boy? He wasn’t quite finished with that thought yet.

“I mean, c’mon. Who really cares about our descendants a thousand years from now? What’s up with that?”

Fact: Tacos don’t taste quite as good when they are inhaled into your sinus passages due to sudden snorts of laughter. Just so you know. As my eyes began to water–those spices BURN going up, I tell you what!–I turned to TGIM for a little help.

“What’s up with that, indeed,” TGIM replied, rubbing the top of TD’s head playfully. “I’m with you. Who cares about our future generations?”

“Plus, you know what else is contributing to global warming?” TD asked, looking to make sure he had our undivided attention. “Cow burps,” he crowed triumphantly.

“Ew!” Hannah squealed.

“Gross,” added Alli.

“Well, sure,” TGIM agreed.

Fact: I am never going to be able to enjoy a taco again. Oh, the agony! In my sinuses! Thanks a WHOLE lot, TGIM. Gosh!

TD looked at me, trying to gauge whether I was in agreement, or whether I was mocking him with my uncharacteristic silence, which he did not appear to notice was due to some serious food mastication issues. “I mean, we’ll all be dead, anyway, right?” he said. “DEAD.”

I finally choked down the taco. “As doornails,” I answered. “And why? Because of a bunch of stinking cows chewing genetically engineered alfalfa and burping up methane gas, that’s why!”

“True dat,” TGIM concurred solemnly. “True dat.”

Honestly. Family conversations over dinner? Rock solid!

I love a good teaching opportunity. What can I say? That’s just the kind of momma I am.

Trouble With a Capital T

As I came downstairs I heard Alli yelling from the living room to her brother in the kitchen, “Tanner! What’s a PIN number?!”

What the…? I thought and hurried the rest of the way downstairs. This couldn’t be good. I mean, eight-year-old? PIN number? Add those together and what do you have? Um, that would be trouble, with a capital TROUBLE. And a heaping side of potential bank fraud, too, don’t let’s forget that! Hoo! Super-size me!

I walked into the living room and found Alli seated in front of the computer where she was supposed to be playing on Everythinggirl.com. I say “supposed to be” because as the computer screen came into view, I saw that Alli had apparently been super busy typing private phone information into a questionnaire she had stumbled upon online, and was now anxiously awaiting this mysterious PIN number thingymabob that was supposed to be sent to her via something called text messaging.

“Allison!” I hissed. “Did you… Ohmygosh, did you type our phone number in the computer?!”

She looked at me with wide, totally guilty eyes. She blinked once. Twice. Then, “Uh… oops?”

I launched into my well-prepared (yet apparently ill-received) lecture about how we NEVER give personal information out on the internet. Then, as I grilled her on what phone number she had actually given out, I glanced back at the screen and noticed for the first time exactly what it was she was filling out on screen.

I stopped mid-sentence and stared at the pink hearts, loopy cursive love notes, and faux-penciled doodles that filled the screen, all tweenagery slambook-style. “‘Am I Dateable?’!” I finally read from the big letters blazoned across the computer screen, my voice a question, but not in the spirit the question was intended. I mean, of course I’m dateable. But this is so not about me. I looked at Allison, who had suddenly slumped so far back into the couch cushions as to become one with the furniture, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

“Heh-heh?” was all Alli had to say for herself.

Tanner and Hannah ran into the living room, looked at the computer screen, and began to laugh. Loud, uproarious laughter. Belly shaking laughter. It was contagious. When Alli said, “Oh! I thought it said, ‘Am I Detable’?” I couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Detable?” I snorted, wiping away tears. “What does that even mean?”

“Whatever, Alli,” said Tanner, obviously disgusted by such transparent guile.

“You… are so… busted!” Hannah gasped between giggles.

Of course, I eventually settled down and resumed my lecture on proper ‘netiquette, and brought it all home with a firm, “And incidentally, you are only eight years old, so no, you are not in any way, shape, or form, ‘dateable.’ Capisce?”

The rest of the evening, every so often someone would suddenly ask, “Hey. Am I dateable?” and we would all burst into giggles again.

Now the kids are in bed, and I’m anxiously awaiting TGIM’s homecoming. Because I’m pretty sure he has a mysterious PIN number thingymabob waiting on his phone, and honestly, who am I to let a perfectly good PIN number go to waste?

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