Probably Terrence

Meet our visitor. Cute little S-O-B, right?

Before you ask; no, we have not named him. I do not care to name him. (although, he does remind me of a Mouse Mouse that I know (Bethany's cat), which has me thinking MouseMouse the Extreme Supreme .... 2MES? no?)

About a month ago, Carl found him out in the junk by the barn, alone and exposed to the elements. The "elements" might or might not have included a fox or an owl or something. Seeing as the barn is situated close to the road, the "elements" definitley includes barreling SUVs of death. His mom either abandoned him or forgot where she left him. This is not out of the realm of possibility, as most of the barn cats around here are hit-or-miss for brain cells. Too many daddy/brothers waiting around to knock up the sister/cousins, if you catch my drift.

Carl was drawn in by the helpless, hungry mewling. Sucker.

He's grown up a lot in the past month. (The kitten, not Carl.) He's gone from bottle-fed teddy cuddler about the size of my tea cup to rolling around with the big boys and attacking feet from under the couch. He now fills up Wendy's whole potty, and breaks skin with his adorable little razor-sharp baby teeth.

Wendy adores him. She catches sight of him and instantly emits these cutesy girl noises that I didn't teach her. She does form words-something to the effect of "Hey mommy, there's the baby kitty. He's so cute. So cute so cute so cute so cute baby baby kitty baby kitty,"-but the

effect is more of a high-pitched whale warble that drowns out all other frequencies.

He is an instant-purrining type of kitty. He sees her/us/anyone coming, presumably to love on him, and he starts the motor.

Carl: That's not actually baby fuzz. He is just vibrating that fast.

D'ya like ears that are too pointy and big for his head?? Haha. Shut up. I do not love him. We are not naming him. (Ranger? Shadow? Terrence?)

In Which I Use My Wifey Voice

Carl: There's this canoe on Craig's List. It's only two hundred dollars.
Me: You know, we could really use two hundred dollars for other things that are not canoes. Like closing costs.

Carl: But. I want a canoe. I've wanted a canoe for a long time.

Me: You know what you've also wanted for a long time? A house.

Carl: But...two hundred dollars is a really good price for a canoe. Don't you think that I work hard and deserve a canoe for the purpose of much-needed rest and relaxation?

Me: I love you and I know that you deserve rest and relaxation. You know where you can rest and relax? A house. That you own.

Carl: .........You're really not going to help me justify this one, are you?

Me: Nope.

Carl: Damn.

*two days later*

Nana: I thought that if you wanted some fishing time or something, I would volunteer my services.

Carl: That would be awesome. Yes. When?

Me: We have a new canoe, don't we.

Carl: .............*grin*

I would say that I need to work on the inflection of sour disapproval, but I know that he heard it. And I don't really mind. (Except that we really do need to be saving the dough for house stuff right now. Frack.)

A Wednesday Morning

Yesterday was the last half-day day for students. I saw every class (or, less than half of every class, because most of them brilliantly stayed home) for about 22 minutes each.

22 minutes is just enough time to show an episode of Invader Zim, high-five them goodbye, and clean up any of my leavings in the three classes where I taught this year. Not enough time to...*cough*...cry. (That was the whole ride home.)

I have three glorious days of boxing up my stuff and filling out paperwork and whatnot, before my job is officially over and I have to think about the next thing. It's kind of nice, but also kind of torture. These last few days are like the set-wrap after a play: cramming costumes into drycleaning bags and breaking down the scenery and sweeping props and makeup into dufflebags.... Except that set-wraps are accomplished in a few frenzied hours while everyone is still coming down from the high of the show, and we have to go to seminars about state standards and sign things about lockers. For three days. It is a terrible anti-climax. Particularly when I'm not sure if I'll have a job in the fall. Plus, we don't get the post-show kegger.

Also, when I gleefully set my alarm clock last night for five-forty-five instead of five-twenty, I accidentally set it for four-forty-five. The first day that I don't have to actually be there at seven thirty, and I wake up at FOUR FORTY FIVE!!!!! DAMNIT!!!

Wendy in Fairy Land

Fairy Festival in Glenn Rock, PA. Ever been? It rocks.

Lots of dred-lock-swinging college students and gypsy bands and hand-crafting artists. The people who host it actually use the money to fund the organic farm on the same grounds. They use the compost from the food court, too. They are great hippies.

Anyway, Wendy took all of this in like the proper child of wanna-be granola-munchers. She pet the alpacas from the alpaca rescue farm. She ate the organic ice cream. She built sand castles in the sand outlining the Native American medicine wheel. She appraised the sudden appearance of fairy wings sprouting from everyone's backs with very matter-of-fact observation. She commented on the very well-coordinated fairies, particularly. "Mommy, the I like the nice and purple girl." Those thigh-high neon pleather boots were begging for matching glitter wings. This isn't weird, mom, it's just thoughtful accessorizing.

We needed some nice, easy family time. Being surrounded by happy, earthy people helps to elevate our collective vibe. Hmm...this got me thinking summer thoughts....

Here's a picture of Wendy and I cuddling outside on our gypsy-band-watchin' blanket:

Here's a picture of Wendy, in her words, "trip-trappin over the bad troll bridge."

(Lest you think that she is scared of the bad troll, I must inform you -as per her request- that she trip-trapped back and forth over the bridge at least ninety four times before we were allowed to move on to another major attraction.)

Bathroom Walls

(a found poem*)

Hello, Angel of my Nightmare
It's hollow in the marrow
Fourtie four dais left
To Write Love On Her Arms
Emo is over, you can all go home now.

*things written in the girl's stalls, artfully arranged by me*

Since last I blogged...

Hrrmm....where to start....
Life as we know it at our casa over the past month or two, through sporadic pictures:

Big snowstorm in February. Wendy likes snow. Carl had a lot of fun wrapping a snowsuit around her and dragging her around the yard on a sled. She is a snow eater. We couldn't walk from the house to the car or from the car to the house without her flinging herself from our arms so that she might eat some snow. She also likes to "shobel" it. This is Wendy and her "shobel."

I took a picture of the window. It looks like the tree is growing out of the little bottle on the sill. See? I am a picture-taking genius!

Two or so weeks ago, I went to visit Steph and Ryan in their new Manyunck apartment. We did some hiking up and down the slopes of the "Irish Alps," in search of lunch. (Machismo Burrito on Main Street, I heart you.) They have a cute apartment in one of those sub-divided big stone houses that looks like a castle. Small kitchen. Big windows.

I broke out in full-body hives one day at school. I blame stress. Eighth period, you win this round...

Jaimie and Eddie are in town. Eddie and Wendy are getting along much better this time around. Witness how they share the horsey very nicely, below. This is new. Usually there is much hollering and pushing of faces into the carpet in the quest for dominance and the title of "Favorite Best Child."

Amusing Eddie Moment:

Carl: After you finish that juice box, you can have another one. You can have as many as you want.

Eddie: .....I like your attitude. (he says, leaning back in his little chair, one foot casually resting on the coffee table)

I haven't been able to visit with them much, as I am f***ing busy all the f***ing time. It has been kind of torturous, to have them here, but not be able to actually interact with them. We had a nice weekend last weekend. Jaimie and I went to yoga Friday night, where they have live music and candles every couple of weeks. Live music means a guy hanging out in the corner of the room with a didgeridoo, a flute, and a sitar, making sounds that are in key with your chakras and jingling some chimes. It was really relaxing, and I really spent some meaningful time there,

focusing on my chi.

Except that sometimes, out of the soul-stirring WHOAUOUOOUOUOUOUUOUOU would come a THPPTHPPPTHH and a strangely interjected SHIKSHIKSHIK as the guy ran out of breath, spit into his "didge" and had to cover the transition with a tribal rattle thingy as he reached for his sitar. As I pressed my face into the mat, resisting the urge to make eye contact with Jaimie lest I completely lose it and break everybody's concentration with my giggling, I wrote this haiku:

Focus on my breath

Finding my peace in tree pose

Praying not to fart

Anyway. We had a great weekend. Jaimie and I had a sushi date on Saturday night, and we all went down for a ham and mac n cheese dinner at my mom's on Sunday. On Sunday morning, as I performed The Beatles through interpretive dance for Jaimie, there was this:

Erin to Jaimie: She only acts like this when you're around.

Here is another picture of Wendy, still loving her Thomas train set:

And, from this morning:

Erin: Wow, that Sham-Wow really sucks the water right out of your hands.
Carl: Yeah. I like to use it when I have to pee but I don't want to leave the car.

This, my friends, is why I love him.

Perks.

I've had some sort of head-devouring cold for the past four or five days. Behold the progression of my demise:
1. a fever and sore throat that knocked me out on Thursday
2. a sinus thing that kept me miserable all weekend and prevented me from faschnagtery (lard-fried donut making) with Steph yesterday
3. a chest-rending cough that has destroyed my ability to speak like a human. Or at all.

This was fun today-trying to play Bingo-review with my classes in preparation for their test tomorrow. Oh yes. I imparted so much wisdom through the sweet reptile-like rasping of my throat...and a bit of interpretive dance. There was much pity to be had. Also, I had to tell some kids off for being jerks, which means that I busted out a deadly-menacing whisper of doom.

I can only imagine that this was three parts terrifying and two parts hilarious to watch. Or, in all probability, the other way around.

Lesson: public school is a teeming, diseased pietre dish full of amoeba-like organisms known as children, who will complain about everything you do, infect you with everything they have, and whine when you punish them with quizzes and writing assignments. Explore a career in teaching today!

Groundwork for an Introspective Existence

The other night, after a very long day out shopping with Wendy, I stopped off at Wall-Mart. I had promised Erin that I would pick up a few things for her. While perusing the art supplies, I turned my back for a few seconds. You might be thinking, 'no good can come of that, stupid-head. What were you thinking?' My answer to you: shove it. Don't call me stupid-head.

Anyway, my peripheral vision caught Wendy swiping the box of crayons from the shelf, but by the time I turned toward her and reached out my hand, she had dumped the entire box into the bottom of the cart. It couldn't have been the 24-count Crayolas, or even the 64-count. No. It had to be the 92-count box.

"Why did you do that," I asked as I tried to shove all 92 back in the box.

"I don't know," she exclaimed in her woeful gerbil voice, while shoving the crayons through the bottom of the cart. "What's wrong with me, Mommy? What's wrong with me?"

And that's the story about how I became the crazy, frizzy-headed mom with the psycho/hysterical laugh crawling around on the floor at Wall-Mart.

Ways To Get Fired

Tell a Puerto Rican kid that the homework is definitely due on Tuesday, unless of course, he is deported.

I only thought about how bad it might have sounded to a passerby after the fact. You have to understand the context. It's been a classroom inside joke for a few weeks-one kid says to this kid "you should be deported." This kid points out to that kid, "being deported to Puerto Rico is like being deported to New Jersey, as Puerto Rico is a territory of the U.S. you dumbass."

What I said was just playing off of that. But if someone heard just my end of it, oh baby. It would totally go on my permanent record.

Still Trying to Blog This....

It's been a while since I've had a chance to blog. But don't feel bad, wide world of Internet friends... I haven't had a chance to read a book or to cook a nice meal or to teach Wendy how to play the violin or anything.

In fact, I've been trying to get past those few sentences and on to a real entry for four days.

Teaching is hard, you guys. All right...not so much hard-(if you are into that sort of thing it's actually really fun)-as time consuming and stressful. And I also have that Wendy person at home....

Yeah.

I've been joking a lot lately about how I wish there was a pill for this. The stress, I mean. The stress of making a million decisions all day about where kids should sit and how they should pass papers around and whether or not they should go to the bathroom and which words to use so I don't crush egos/receive emails from parents. And then there is the paperwork. And trying to appear smart and professional in front of co-workers. And portfolio reviews.

Did I tell you guys the story about how I cried in front of my direct supervisor?

It's a great story. It has everything you want in a blog entry: Anticipation and angst over potential failure, humiliation and emotional seepage in place of the blindingly impressive intellect that one planned on displaying, eventual relief when one realizes that not only is one not going to die, but that there is actual approval and understanding in the universe...

I'll tell you that story sometime....

Right now, I should tell you the story about our kitchen.
Once upon a time, Mo had off from work for a non-denominational two-week "Winter break." Carl was there too. I don't know why. Holiday togetherness. That sounds good.

Anyway, all it took was a few days of dewy-eyed, loving togetherness before we started ripping the paper off the walls. Literally. Ripping paper off the kitchen walls and painting them orange. Why orange? BECAUSE. That's why.

Good story, huh?

Here's a picture of Wendy wanting nothing to do with Santa:

He didn't take it personally. She still got some good loot for Christmas. :-P