According to the front page of the regional newspaper, this is the new look for summer. Personally, I think it's a cheap rip-off of Siouxie Sioux, and she should be pissed.

[When I told him why I had the digital camera out, my "Lovely" Husband called me "e-Margie." I am putting this on the list, and if I ever decide to leave him, it will be entered as evidence of mental abuse. (ha! ha!)]
 

Blabbedly Blab Blab

Thursday morning I was waiting for a shop to open so I could drop off some film for developing, and to kill some time I wandered to the window of the plumbing business next door. In addition to the usual collection of sinks and fixtures, there was a toilet, with a most unusual lid. It was painted in wavy stripes that forcibly reminded me of The Scream. Now I am having all these strange associations.

I also looked in the window of the drug store, and lo and behold, there were *cotton balls*. When D.D. was having some cold-related ear problems, I needed cotton balls to keep the drops in her ears, and I could not find them anywhere in the damn drug store. Of course, I could have just asked, but I generally avoid asking questions in German. Besides, shouldn't cotton balls be with the baby supplies? Right? But no, they are by the cosmetics, so it makes perfect sense that I have never seen them before.

***

Bikes aren't allowed in the main shopping/pedestrian street in town, so they all take the parallel street that connections many of the university buildings. German bikes have bells, and people use them to warm dummies who walk 5 across while they chat to get the hell out of the way. I have to say that I feel much safer walking around here than on the UTexas campus, where I constantly feared the 2-wheeled messengers of death.

I also feel much safer on a bus. I know I have mentioned before how narrow everything is around here—the end result of living in a valley and/or an old, pre-auto town—but the buses can squeeze through the tiniest gaps without knocking off rear-view mirrors. It's actually kind of weird to be passing another bus (or a streetcar) so closely that you can tell the passengers on the other bus are also holding their breath. I wouldn't trust an Austin bus driver not to hit a traffic sign, much less pass a bicyclist on a narrow, twisty, mountain road.

***

When I take D.D. to school, we often see the man who delivers the lunches for the after-school-care kids (there's no lunch at school here otherwise). He cracks me up. He's this middle-aged, kind of dumpy man, but the radio in his truck is blasting dance music of the techno variety the whole time he's at the school. A Night at the Roxbury, anyone?

***

The grandparents and aunts and uncles will be happy to know that my Darling Daughter still says "fanger" (instead of "finger"). I believe she does it quite consciously, but it's better than no drawl whatsoever.

Off the Cuff

Lovely SIL sent me an appropriate accompaniment to my toilet-reading post. Enjoy!

I met a girl! (If you thought of Cry-Baby, you are my soul mate.) Well, she's been in 2 of my classes all semester, but we just introduced ourselves briefly today. She's also American, although I didn't catch where from. Seeing how I'm so socially reluctant, it was a big deal for me.

Here are some interesting things I saw on the way home on the bus:

Neighboring houses with almost-matching, wrought-iron, birdcage-esque gazebos on the street side. One was serving as a rose arbor.

Two crows standing on some driftwood swirling in the river. They didn't seem to notice the water or the swirling.

A red hang glider circling over the abbey. He seemed to be heading for one of the fields nearby.

Otherwise, I got nuthin'.

All the News That's Not Really News

D.D. managed to injure herself twice over three days. First, she slammed her hand in the car door. She had a big bruise just below her wrist that was tender the first day. She was complaining at school that it hurt, so the secretary put an ice pack on it, then wrapped a gauze bandage around it so her friends could sign it. She managed to whip up plenty of sympathy and attention for herself with one bruise.

Then last night she flopped over the back of the couch onto the seat, a not uncommon occurrence around here, except that she managed to land with her heels on the coffee table. Ouch! She had a scrape on one ankle, but when I felt all over her foot while she watched tv, she didn't even flinch. Until she noticed what I was doing, then it was, "Oh! My foot!" I made her run cold water over her foot in the tub, which she said helped. So she's not permanently maimed.

One night this week, D.D. wanted to listen to her Soul Control cd, but we have to switch around a bunch of plugs to turn on the stereo, so I talked her into using the jambox in the kitchen. She wanted me to close it off with a makeshift curtain (no door) so we wouldn't peek, because she wanted to "dance for herself." We promised to stay in the living room, but we wondered what the neighbors downstairs thought of the rhythmic thumping coming from her jumping around and dancing in the kitchen.

D.D. has decided that bad people should have giant apple heads (but not red), for easier spotting. Like Dracoy Malfoy, for instance. He'd have a big, pale, apple head with a sprig of blond hair where the stem would be. If only life were so simple.

She has also decided to forego those pesky "idioms" and "conventions of standard English." We were watching the second LOTR movie, the scene where the Ents attack Saruman's fortress. L.H. and I were explaining what was going on to D.D., and I remarked, "How would Saruman like to get a taste of his own medicine?" D.D. corrected me: "A taste of his own *poop*. That would be much worse." And we couldn't convince her that her way wasn't the best. I can't wait to see her first school essay in English when we get back to the States.

L.H. and I have a running argument about who has the worst taste in dining: he says my instant coffee tastes like it's infused with tuna, and I point out that hot dogs wrapped in bacon is not exactly a gourmet dish. A side argument is dunking: he does, I don't. *shudder* I hate soggy food.

On Sunday we took advantage of some nice-ish weather (not too cold; overcast, but not raining) and went for a "hike." There are trails all over the place around here, so we weren't hiking in the "mountaineering" sense, but we did have a nice, long walk. At one point we came across a marshy area that is purportedly a wallowing spot for wild boars, who were thankfully absent. While standing around a tiny observation hut above the spot, we heard the *very loud*, *very disconcerting* droning of bees. We didn't see many bees except down near the water, so we think they may have been in the cane off to the side. L.H. and I started wondering if any Africanized bees have made it this far north.

We had to cross a road at one point and saw—I don't know what you call them—a three-wheeled motorcycle. (Silly me, it's called a trike. Why didn't I know that?) We've seen quite a few since the weather warmed up (comparatively speaking). During the memorable 4 days when it was nearly hot (sound like a legend in the making: "The Almost-Heat-Wave of '05"), the road that goes through our village and over the mountain to the next village was overrun with bicyclists and motorcycles, including the trikes. One day I counted from the window as a motorcycle club went up the hill; I lost track at 70, but I'm positive there were at least 100 riders.

Anyhow, when we saw the trike on Sunday, D.D. said she wanted one, hot pink, with her name written on both sides and a big 'one' on the back. My little motorcycle mama.

On the drive home, we were passed by a bicycle. Yes, I was driving, but it was a steep hill, so I was in a low gear and riding my brakes, and the dude was peddling as fast as he could go. As a matter of fact, I got stuck behind another bike that was coasting down the hill. So I'm following one bike and being tailgated by another until he had a chance to pass us both. The humiliation! (Not really. I'm an unashamed granny driver these days. "Better safe than dead" is my motto.)

More Observations From Around Town

I'd like to report another sighting of the Old French Whore, in town instead of on the bus this time. She had on an acid green top and a floral-print skirt in hot pink, with a matching hot-pink sweater draped jauntily around her shoulders. I spotted her tottering across the central bus terminal on stiletto mules. Ouch! Surprisingly, the top and skirt coordinated, but caused me to lose my color vision for several minutes afterward.

Farther along in the shopping district, I spotted Simon LeBon's copycat younger brother, who apparently had just been unfrozen from his cryogenic sleep. His polo couldn't have been pinker, his loafers less sockless, or his jeans less tightly rolled at the ankle. And after sleeping through the 80s and 90s, it must have been difficult for him to lift his head with all the residual styling products weighing it down (but nevertheless leaving him with the timeless "rooster-head"). Ah...those were the days.

I found myself staring at my classmates again today. The reason was pretty straightforward in one girl's case—she had bubble-gum pink tips on her nails, set off with a silver glitter line. In all other respects, this girl was non-descript: naturally styled hair, light make-up, simple black blouse. But I guess the heart of a disco queen can beat in any of us.

The other girl looks a lot like Audrey Hepburn: small, pointy, pixie face and large eyes. Quite cute, actually, and always tastefully made up. But the clothes! Today she wore a leopard-print blouse; her hair was piled high and topped with a dusty-rose silk flower, which just happened to be the same color as her leather jacket. Unfortunately, neither matched her black cat-eye glasses or giant dangly bead earrings. I often think maybe I should glam up, but then I see this girl and realize how easily fashion-retarded people like myself can make a misstep or 12.

While crossing the bridge on my way to the bus stop, I passed a guy singing loudly *in falsetto*. People! Headphones do not make you invisible!

My Dear Friend was telling me about the series of freaks she's had to teach (at the university level), the most recent being a girl who bursts into song during class. Maybe she thinks she's in a Björk film.

There's a tanning salon around the corner from my building at the university, and the signs they have outside kill me. One poster is for the brand of tanning beds they use, and it features a woman crouching in a desert, wrapped in *tiny strips of foil*. The way she's squatting, she appears to be giving birth, and I have to wonder: to what, a baked potato?

The other poster is actually their logo, a drawing of a man in a bikini on a lounge chair soaking up some sun. It's nice to see a man used for once, except that some of the color directly above his bikini has been scratched or rubbed away, so his crotch appears to be smoking. Hee! I don't think that's really going to bring in the male customers.

Weather-bitching level: 2.5
Once again, I've been duped! Over the last 2 days, it's been gradually getting warmer...then it rained this morning, with sprinkles on and off throughout the day. Sitting in the house, it's cool, but if you have to move around outside (like to pick up your kid from school), you are instantly soaked in sweat because it is so humid. Damn you, Mother Nature!

Doesn't Yoda look ready to take names and kick ass? Cleaning with these babies makes me feel powerful. Keep tuned for more photos as we make our way through the multi-pack (C3PO, Chewbacca, and Darth Vader are slated to put in appearances). 

The Wonderful World of Pants

I am beginning to take an obsessive interest in pants. They're fascinating! For instance, I am noticing a definite trend in pants that double as optical illusions.

Exhibit A
Tan cargo-style pants with gothic lettering, in white, across the seat (seen as the wearer was heading into the Ladies'.) It appears that someone from Pimp My Ride went crazy and started putting letter decals on everything in sight, and the afflicted pants caught on. Unfortunately, the letter-applier stayed true to the original form (an arc; you know, like on the back window of a low-rider), and I suspect that has a magnifying/distorting effect. Have you ever successfully seen what's inside one of those Magic Eye posters? (Dude! It even works online!) Same effect.

Exhibit B
Dark-colored, pin-striped, tight, women's pants. These are not being worn as part of a suit, either (although I did see a woman in a pin-striped suit recently, and her pants did not melt my brain, because they were properly tailored). No, these pants are topped with baby tees and cropped sweaters and such. It makes my eyes water to see the lines distorted over the bulgy parts, and it's horribly unflattering. Who talked these women into thinking that straight vertical lines are attractive on a normal, curvy figure?

And to make matters worse, I saw a pair on a *pregnant woman*. I know! What was she thinking? If there's one thing a pregnant lady has, it's bulges, trust me, and this lady's pants were affecting my brain like acid-laced Fruit Stripe gum.

Coinciding with my pants fetish is the need for new pants. Well, jeans. I really need to find a store that carries petite, i.e., short, sizes, because I was ready to stab my eyes out after roaming the juniors section of the large department store. I even braved the horrors of a shop helpfully named "Pretty Fashion", but I detest pre-distressed jeans, and also the size problem; on the other hand, I was very much tempted to buy from their array of silk kimonos and Mandarin evening gowns. I have no plan whatsoever to enter "Jeans Palace", and I learned last year that H&M caters to women who are 6 feet tall with legs shaped like dowel rods, i.e., not me.

***

[Grossness Warning]
If you are like me, you have a large-ish stack of unread books, perhaps left over from your *cough* university classes. Maybe you would like to read them but don't feel you have the time. I am here to share with you my new system: put a book in the bathroom! Toss Redbook or Reader's Digest or Carpentry Weekly in the trash and get edjumicated! It'll take you forever to finish (for this reason I suggest starting with a compilation of essays or articles), but at least you'll be making progress (no pun intended).

***

Le Mariage Royale has foisted another travesty of formal wear on unsuspecting passersby. The gown on the left in the window is not too bad on first glance: a simple design in white with dark red piping along the bodice seams—bold but not ugly. Until you see that someone added a row of cross-lacing, with a red tie, up the left hip. Perhaps it was supposed to be a corset top, but the seamstress misplaced her glasses and decided to keep on with her work anyway.

The dress on the right.... I can only speculate that it's part of a new line aimed at retired prostitutes, those who found the red-trimmed dress too demure. I can't even describe it, but suffice it to say that it is a confounding amalgamation of mini-skirt/mermaid dress, tiny tulle ruffles, and plunging necklines.

Composed June 9

The Weather-Bitching Level is back! And it's a 2.7! (0 being 'nothing to bitch about weather-wise' and 3 being 'I will never stop bitching', i.e., winter.) According to the weather-lady on tv yesterday, we're having the coldest June in recent memory. South of us they even had a frost. In June! It hasn't even hit 70F since over the weekend. One morning, we saw smoke rising from someone's chimney, and that evening my polar-bear child wanted a blanket to go with her long jammies during the bedtime reading. I hate! the cold. The only way the weather could be worse would be if it started raining, which will probably happen now that I've said it.

You see some interesting people riding the bus, but after a while you get used to your fellow commuters. Today there was a new face on the bus, and it was *crazy*. Not like threatening crazy, just avoiding eye contact but talking loudly *in English* crazy. I didn't catch what exactly she was saying, but she seemed to be addressing someone; I checked her out several times, because I thought she might have a cell phone with a headset or a mini-recorder, but I didn't see anything of the sort. Great. Now the Germans around here will think Americans are war-mongers AND crazy.

But that wasn't even the scariest thing to happen on the bus that time. Whenever we came to a stop, you could tell the driver was trying to stop as gradually as possible, letting off the brakes 2 or 3 times before coming to a complete halt, at which point the brakes would make a terrible noise. I was concerned that perhaps there was a bicycle up in the wheel well, with or without bicyclist, but I didn't notice once when I got off. I was also worried that we might start to skid since the noise was a bit like the sound of brakes locking. Have I mentioned that my house is at the top of a steep hill?

Do you ever notice yourself blinking, then you can't stop noticing, and then you wonder how weird you must look because you're consciously blinking? I think this awareness of involuntary movements is becoming a theme with me.

My Darling Daughter had a wart on her foot; I didn't dawdle in treating it, because I've had a plantar wart before, and having a doctor jab a skewer covered with wart-poison into her foot is not something I would wish for my daughter. Anyhow, a couple of days after starting to use the salicylic acid on her foot (carefully!), I noticed that the wart on my thumb knuckle was making a break for freedom. Now, this has been a tenacious wart; I've accidentally scraped the skin off that spot *twice* with a cheese grater—don't try that at home, kids!—yet the wart always returned. I guess the wart got wind of the acid and decided not to stick around to be the next victim, so after picking off the little seed thingie—which was literally hanging out—I am officially wart-free.

I took my Latin mid-term today, and I don't think I bombed, so that was good. I did go through all the psychological stages of studying, though:
denial—"I've got plenty of time!"
panic—"There's too much to learn!"
death wish (self)—"I want to lie down and die."
death wish (instructor)—"If he had a heart attack last night, I won't have to take the test today."
and resignation.

Games You Can Play with Your Child

The next time your child gives you a kiss, throw your hands over your face, writhe, and screech, "It burns!" Guaranteed child pleaser, and sure-fire way to get more voluntary kisses.

***

My Darling Daughter was reading a book the other day, and I popped into the living room to ask her a question. She gave me a curt "No", which, translated for any non-compulsive readers out there, means, "Shut up and go away." I wasn't offended, but I ran back into the kitchen for a giggle because it was so me as a child. She really is Mini-Me.

***

D.D. got a big birthday box in the mail from her gwamma that was filled with one large and several small packages. Interestingly, she started with the small boxes: "A tiny waddle bottle!" Joy! Molly, her American Girl doll, really raked it in with an entire bedroom suite, complete with a tiny working lamp, a bed, a dresser with a drawer in it, and water bottle (obviously). D.D. had to stop in the middle of the proceedings to get batteries for the lamp, and she's been dragging it around the house like she used to carry her blankie as a toddler, because you never know when she might need the extra light of a 10-Watt bulb. She also generously offered to let L.H. take it with him to an 8 p.m. meeting in case it was dark when it ended; he pointed out that the car's headlights should provide plenty of light, thanks.

The bedroom suite has been in the living room, in the "clubhouse/hotel" under her play-bed, and in the bed next to D.D.'s pillow. I'm surprised she hasn't jabbed herself in the eye with a wooden edge (even if it is covered by a corduroy bedspread) in her sleep. In the mornings, I tickle D.D. awake, then she gently wakes Molly by slowly lifting her upright until her eyes open. She's a much sweeter mom than I am.

***

When we were in Paris, we had dinner with Lovely Husband's friend, and she roasted a chicken. D.D. wanted the wishbone, but we couldn't find it as it was probably broken up in the process of carving. So the friend's daughter explained that this was 'poulet', not 'chicken', therefore French chickens must not have a wishbone. Shades of Gary Larson and his "Boneless Chicken Ranch." Hee!

***

There's a formal-wear shop near the German as a Foreign Language department called "Le Mariage Royale." (Makes me think of a plastic clock L.H. 'rescued' from the garbage room when we lived in Sweden that was helpfully labeled "High Class Clock.") Every time I walk by with D.D., she says I need to get one of the (wedding) gowns on display. I've repeatedly pointed out that I'm not exactly in the market for such a dress.

Most of the time this shop has duelling gown models in varying degrees of tackiness in the window, but these days they have a bridal couple *made of balloons*. The groom is a column of gray balloons topped with a white balloon with a Lego-esque face drawn on it. I think he also has a gray top hat. The bride is a column of ivory balloons with a white balloon head and a veil. But that's not all! She's also got a tube balloon (like clowns bend into poodles and swords and hats) for arms at waist height with a pink bouquet attached to the front. It's a classy display for a classy shop.

***

Usually I'm pretty nonchalant around here about my blog. I'll mention to L.H. that I've updated it, or tell him if I felt I had something particularly witty to say, but otherwise I try to play it cool. But sometimes, like a couple of days ago, I get all hovery and want to watch L.H. while he reads. (Because I'm a megalomaniac—surprise!—,a term we've been bandying about recently.) He finally told me I was creeping him out, kinda like the old lady in The Wedding Singer who wants to watch Adam Sandler eat the meatballs, because "That's my favorite part!" So I'm backing off. But maybe I'll install a surveillance camera. Hmmm....

The Bird Man of Ziegelhausen

My husband's family, at least on his dad's side, has a strange affinity for birds. His grandparents used to have a house full of the vermin, I mean, parakeets and cockatiels, plus doves out back, and his grandmother used to cook scrambled eggs for them and let them drink out of her coffee cup. (Needless to say, I have never kissed her on the mouth. And I don't leave D.D. unattended around her in case she decides to cook her up and serve her to the rest of the family.) Family grudges have been held over who let whose bird escape. And L.H.'s dad is always going on about a song he composed and taught his bird to whistle. He'll be on Broadway next.

In the past, L.H. has shared my distaste for all things feathery and indiscriminately excretory, but now he swears he's been hearing a bird outside our window who is singing the Munchkin-Land tune from The Wizard of Oz. I think he's getting some fumes up through the floor from the teenager in the apartment below us. I haven't heard the bird myself, but L.H. claims he was vindicated in the case of the piss bugs (which we actually saw in action on one of his grandmother's trees), and he will be proved right this time. Quite a track record, eh?

According to the Partaay Quiz (that's not misspelled) L.H. took at D.D.'s behest on the Disney web site, Dijonay of Proud Family fame has labeled him a "Party Pooper." "That explains why I never get invited back; I should go before I leave home," he quipped. (We're all about scatalogical humor around here, since we're in BIL withdrawal.)

And in related news (wait for it...), D.D.'s German is not just bleeding into her English these days, it has taken it hostage and is only letting it out for cigarette breaks. She doesn't use the cute kid-English for bathroom functions anymore (one and two, remember?); instead she has to "make a big (or enormous, in her case) or a small." If you don't learn any other German idioms from this site, be sure to master this one.

The weather is driving me mad(-der; ha ha *twitch*). If the first day of Summer is June 21, why am I still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket? We had four clear, warm, sunny days about a week and a half ago, then a pretty powerful storm blew in with thunder and rain to cool things off, which we appreciated at the time. On the plus side, it also knocked a bunch of baby chestnuts off the trees, so that means less head-conking this fall. On the minus side, it seems to have also taken casualties among the apple trees down the street.

Since then we've had cool, wet, almost warm, windy, and cloudy, but no truly warm weather. Why oh why did we buy that oscillating fan? I feel like a fool for pushing our long-sleeved clothes and sweaters to the back of the closet, because who knows when we might need them again (like today)? In Texas, you put everything made of yarn away in May, and you get it back out in October. There is no overlap in the seasons. Here, you never know when a new one has started. L.H. found out that it is now safe to put out geraniums, i.e., no threat of frost. At the start of June! Ok, I should stop this line of complaining before I give myself a stroke.

Some of the Spring/Summer phenomena I have noticed around here are UGLY pumps and loafers, and thin, white cotton pants. If you ask me, the latter are a recipe for disaster. And the former—so ugly! I saw one woman in normal clothes and *gold glitter flats*. D.D. had a red pair as a 4-year-old that we called her Dorothy shoes (it's the Oz recursion!), but I had never thought of them as appropriate for 25-year-olds. The other shoes look like someone sent a dumpster from the 80s through a time portal that landed in the local department stores. Eek!

Another Summer pastime is mowing. I have seen the following techniques used here in our village (keep in mind that the sides of the valley are steep, and houses are built up along both sides): mowing with an industrial-strength, tractor-type mower; weed-whacker followed by raking; a scythe; and sheep. The last two amuse me to no end, especially since I can watch the mad scyther while I wait for the bus near D.D.'s school, and we can sometimes hear the sheep bleating from at home; they usually sound pretty pissed off, although I don't claim to be a sheep interpreter. I would be pissed off, too, if I were an ersatz lawn-mower, lazy owners.

True Confessions

I need to get something off my chest. You'll probably want to sit down for this. If you have a weak heart, be sure to pick up the phone and dial 9-1 before proceeding to the next line.

I de-haired my legs.

Yes, I realize this is a terrible shock, but it is true nonetheless. Note that I did not *shave* my legs, as that usually entails copious blood loss for me, and I'm trying to keep my anemia under control.

I finally caved and bought some depilatory cream because we had four very warm (high 80s) days and no AC. Hairless seemed a much cooler way to go. The stuff I bought didn't stink and promised to last twice as long as shaving (so that would be two days as opposed to one for me). I will never take a razor to my legs again.

As long as I'm coming clean, I ironed today, and not even my own clothes, and not even because someone needed it right then. I know! What is wrong with youth today? Gwamma sends D.D. beautiful dresses, and usually I am lazy enough to let her go around wrinkled, but today I needed to re-melt an iron-on back on, so I ironed the whole dress, plus one of L.H.'s particularly wrinkly shirts. I realize that this unprecedented act of housekeeping is a desecration to my mother's name, but I can still make her proud to be my mom with my closet full of half-finished craft projects.

My lovely MIL sent me two cute blouses, so with them and my freshly de-haired legs in mind, I decided to go shopping for a skirt. Normally, the only thing that would be worse is falling into an open sewer, but I braved *two* department stores in search of a prairie-style skirt. (At least, that's how I think of them—I don't know fashion.) By the second store, I couldn't even bring myself to go up to the second floor. It was a soul-withering experience, and I have decided to just be happy with my long denim skirt for now.

And, I was a black drag queen in a former life, but you probably already knew that.

This dwarf turned his head back and forth, but notice how his eyes *never stop watching you*. 

Here's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. 

Here's a classic: the donkey who shat golden coins. If you ask me, they're still going to be hard to spend.  

This was really the defining moment for me. These are mining dwarfs, and they are mining Stollen (a German xmas cake), from what I can tell. And according to the recording, not a beam of natural light ever made it into their caves. Creep-o! 

Belated Birthday

D.D. had her birthday a couple of weeks ago, but it was in the middle of her school break, and we managed to fart around and not arrange anything then. She today we took her and 4 of her friends to the local amusement park. It's about like Neff's in Angelo (is that place still open?). Anyhow, it's called the Fairy Tale Paradise, and there are lots of kid-friendly rides and playgrounds. D.D. and friends rode on the back of a giant plastic witch around a track, ditto a pony, rode around the park on the train, bounced on the giant moonwalk thingy, and drove non-bumper cars. D.D. almost caused a pile-up as soon as she got in her car, and it took her a couple of tries to get the hang of it. As she careened around, trying to make the car go where she wanted it to, she called out, "I don't have a driver's license!" How irresponsible of us to let her drive without one!

Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.

The Joys? of Parenting

The crack about the Nixon parenting method was made just before Deep Throat came forward. Talk about a weird coincidence.

Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.

She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.

She Comes By It Naturally

D.D. is a bit of a geek (see Yoda picture below) because her dad and I are geeks. We were listening to a radio interview with a man who is part of a group of people who are trying to break a record by reading as many places of pi as possible in 30 hours. This led L.H. and I to rack our brains trying to remember what we knew about pi: I had the denominator—7—and he had the numerator—22. I only remembered 3.1.4, but when he tried to outgeek me (incorrectly, I might add smugly), I was able to come up with 3.1416. Dr. Math at Drexel gives a short version of 3.14159265358979323846, so mine was rounded up. Considering I haven't taken math of any sort since 1995-ish, and no geometry-related math since 1992, I felt less stupid than I have of late.

D.D. and I are geeks. We got a multi-pack of paper towels just because this little guy was in it, then we fought over him; I won. And the paper towels are nifty, too--they have Star Wars characters on them. They go with the travel packs of tissues with the Star Wars wrappers. 

Translation: "Hannah's Revenge Notebook" Yes, we're parenting using the award-winning Nixon Method.