Tales of a Shoebox Princess

I dread the children getting sick, for so many reasons--I don't like surprises, it throws a wrench into my plans, I don't know how to deal with it because I don't know how to fix whatever is wrong with them, and when I do take them to the doctor, most of the time even the doctors never say with certainty what the problem is. They waffle for a bit with "well it could be" and "probably" "we think ..." Why don't kids come with little flash-drive type ports? That way, I could press their nose or something and out would pop (preferably from an orifice not already associated with input or output) a little diagnosis. "More carrots" or "Lots of rest, warning: child will vomit three times in the next 5 hours" or "dysplastic mole; please remove within next 6 months" or even "swelling on knee due to trauma suffered while child was trying to do 'the worm' on a cement sidewalk, despite his recollection that h

(it's not what you think) (really, I promise) First off, I just realized that I've blogged 5 of Hayley's birthdays. I've just hit my four year mark in blogging (well, earlier this month). I looked back at that eleventh birthday of Hayley's on my blog and she looked like such a little girl back then! My my my how she has grown. Now on to racism. As in race-ism. As in it's track season. As in Paul runs track. Therefore he races, therefore he is a racist. He's not racist, but he is A racist. Sort of like a cyclist, only without the bike. I love over-explaining a joke.  Note to Mike: thanks for thinking this one up. Paul has run in two meets so far. In the first meet, he ran the 3200 m (2 mile) and WON IT. As in HE CAME IN FIRST. Out of all the racists. He says the race was so non-competitive, which explains why he won it. 10:50 for 2 miles, while that would kill me several times over and leave my ruined body in a dumpster, is fairly average for a high

Life is not "life as I know it" anymore. The rules are changing. Babies are now teenagers. Hayley is 15. Technically this means she can get a driver's permit. She hasn't registered for driver's ed yet though. Don't know when that will happen because she's a busy girl. I'm not going to list her attributes, because invariably, she'll disagree with whatever I've written. She is un-pigeonhole-able. Except for one thing: She has a good singing voice. I learned that last Saturday night at the ward talent show. She sang "Yesterday" and accompanied herself on the bass guitar. I personally think that Katie sings tres beautifully, but I had not realized how well little sister sang. They are different however--Katie sings Broadway style, while Hayley sings in an indie alt/rock style. There is no growl in her voice, but it's just edgier than Katie's voice.They'll have to sing together in church next time Katie's here in MN

Last night Jim and I went on a date. I use "went" loosely here, since we didn't actually go anywhere. And he didn't realize it was a date until this morning when I told him it was a good date. First, a note of explanation: Jim likes to borrow CDs from the library. Last night, he popped his latest librarical find into the CD player and said, "Guess what this is." I love the guessing game. Historical note: When we got married, I didn't know much about popular music. I didn't know band names, much less bandmember names. Over the years, Jim has fed me a steady diet of musical trivia and broadened my exposure to bands of the 60s, 70s and 80s. When he first started saying, "Guess who this is..." I couldn't. Nowadays, I'm much better and I surprise myself even. The other night, as Jim was playing his iPod (he has spent the last YEAR going through all the music on his iPod alphabetically--and he's still not done), he mentioned som

Terrible pun in the post title, I'll admit. I sewed yesterday. I bought a piece of swimming suit lycra and made this: And I didn't even use a pattern. I measured my length and width, cut a rectangle to fit the measurements and had enough material left over to cut a circular (not gathered) ruffle. The ruffle was mostly guesswork, but I've had enough sewing experience to guess right most of the time. I used swimming suit lycra because it is extra stretchy (for those times I have to bend over to pick something up) and because it doesn't wrinkle easily. It hangs nicely and it's soft. See the ruffle on the bottom? Yes, without a pattern.  And because it's lycra, I didn't worry too much about hemming it--I serged a narrow rolled hem (like I do when I sew napkins) in a coordinating color. Up close of the ruffle: Yay for a new skirt! A light summery flowery bluery greenery skirt!

This has been a bummer of a winter. I love me some white fluffy snow, even into May. I don't mind wearing a parka and I love mother-knit mittens. Hot cocoa is the drink du not only jour, but la saison aussi. (No, I don't know French. Except for the one line I remember from second grade when I was allowed to take French lessons instead of spelling: Dans la maison.... and then something about le salon) But if it's been a bummer of a winter, at least the bummer is in the form of wispy warmy breezy hazy not too sunny sunshine. So the bummer is a good kind of bummer. I felt so late springy that I wore my summery bracelets, TWO of them even. I like to wiggle my wrist and hear the beads chatter on my wrist. I feel like wearing flowery cotton skirts and single knit t-shirts and a big floppy hat. And leather sandals. The bummer of this bummer winter is that the flowers aren't blooming yet. "It's the middle of March!" they say, "It's like your alarm c

Paul didn't tell me he had a french horn quartet piece for solo/ensemble contest. I knew the whole band was going to perform and I figured that was why he wore his black suit, his black shirt and a fabbo tie. I also thought that when he said, "I'm doing solo/ensemble" he meant the whole band. Why did I not guess he had a small group performance? Because he never said (and I'm going to use his vernacular) "Me and the other horns are gonna play a thing." Not that that statement is particularly enlightening, but it would have clued me into SOMETHING, and I would have grilled him until I understood exactly what was going on. He never mentioned having to practice, and based on his lack of practice or mention of any kind that he played an instrument over the last 2 years, I would not have guessed he was game for getting together with the other french horns and playing a horn quartet for some judges. So how did I find out? Facebook. This is why I am on face

When last I left you, I was feeding pills to Tom Servo the cat (not Tom Servo the robot). After a day of feline languidity and sluggishness and letting himself go (apparently cats can get really bad dandruff), he perked up and peed all over our favorite (but broken) couch. Jim decided to chuck the whole piece of couch and move the remaining un-peed-on sectional portion to face the TV, granting us several square feet of freed up space in the room. Unfortunately, chucking the whole piece of couch now makes us look like a trash house because that couch piece is now sitting in our front yard, just waiting to be turned into permanent housing for mice, voles, rats, birds, and various deadly viruses. It also doesn't match the hostas. It is also visibly tattered because there aren't any cushions on it and the bottom lining is partially torn off and it waves in the wind. I like the larger feel to the room now that the couch is just a single piece, but I miss being able to lie down

Tom Servo is sick again. He had bladder stones a few years ago and I think they are back, badder than ever, and blocking his urethra, which is not good. *sigh* *sigh* *sigh* Vet appt soon. But I'm preparing for the worst. Update: No feline grim reaper yet. Vet couldn't see any blockage. For now, I get to give the cat antibiotic pills every 12 hours. Let me tell you exactly how fun that is: not any.  Servo will not see reason when it comes to taking pills.

It was a small celebration. Celebrations take planning, planning takes time, and time is in short supply these days (anyone know where I can get more of it?). Jim was fine with that. But a birthday boy DOES need cake. And I can do cake in little spare moments of the day. And this is his cake. What I didn't have time for was to come up with a super witty or super interesting cake decoration idea. OH well. Plain old 50 written in green icing surrounded with purple tastes just as good as cute ideas done in the same icing. And here is the 50 year old himself, smiling like he doesn't have a major milestone birthday: And notice Matt being weird. Shows you how much respect our children have for their parents. And here is a picture of Hayley. And one of Paul: We were all happy to eat cake. Then we sang Happy Birthday in the most mournful way possible--in minor key and in our lowest voices. It was so pathetically sad, which made us all laugh. Good times!