Cupcake's class spent a month preparing for their Market Day. They learned about businesses and economics, business plans and partnerships. Each team was given a loan of up to $60, with which to purchase advertising and lease retail space in the third grade rooms. They planned, manufactured, and priced their merchandise; everything had to be made from recycled materials. There were bookmarks, banners, autograph books, jewelry, even miniature paper kites.
Last Wednesday the market was open. Cupcake and her partner manufactured and sold out of cardboard flag keychains; just before closing time she managed to sell the strips of denim on which the merchandise had been pinned for display.
This sign caught my eye, posted on the booth across from Cupcake's:
Well, I say bravo for them! Every store has to have rules, and this one makes way more sense than restricting bathroom use to employees.
Robespierre's been droopy all day; I finally took his temperature with a real thermometer instead of my hand, and the real thermometer indicates that he has a real fever. I should have guessed: hypochondria is more fleeting than the real thing. He's in my room now, sleeping, with a trashcan next to the bed and the baseball game playing on the radio.
Good thing he managed to get out with my dad yesterday to play golf, since it's also been raining all day.
It didn't take long. One of my goals for 2009 was to learn to use Twitter to promote FeeFiFoto. I joined in January, and unjoined today. What went wrong? I "followed" lots of people, but I could never quite figure out exactly what I was following, or why I should care. I kept coming into conversations already in progress, and it made me feel the way I used to feel when I picked up my grandparents' party line in the middle of someone else's conversation.
For the moment I've returned to the basics to promote my blog and my site: finding and commenting on well written and insightful blogs. To date, I have 163 subscriptions in my reader.
I used to have a neighbor who borrowed my clothes to wear to dinner parties, parties that she hosted in her own home. I was never invited to any of these parties, although I was privy to many details about guest lists and menus. I haven't run into her in a long time.
I used to be one of those people whose male friends (even crushes) unloaded to me about their girlfriends.
My neighbor's daughter is getting married tomorrow night. I wasn't
invited. He called this morning to ask if he could borrow one of my
dog cages, since they're considering getting a puppy next week.
This week's theme is Plastic. Here's a photo of Cupcake and her friend Rock Star on vacation in the Dominican Republic. Each of them got a floatie raft, and since we were there only three days, we couldn't stand the thought of trashing them, so we deflated them and packed them in our suitcases. Cupcake gave hers to her cousins; they still use it. She calls it "Emily." I don't know why.
His hands and feet are bigger than mine. He's almost as tall as I am, and he weighs more than I weighed when I graduated from college (but not more than I weigh now). He can pick me up. He's taller than his 13-year-old cousin. In the fall I bought him extra-roomy shirts; they don't fit him any more. He outgrew an armload of new boxers so quickly that he never even wore some of them. He eats constantly. He snarks at me but still calls me "Mamma." In a crowded room he'll look me in the eye and purse his lips just so slightly in a kiss that's undetectable to anyone but me.
I love him more than I can express, but you get the idea.
Happy Birthday, Robey!
PS: Happy birthday also to Mr. T, Cher, Joe Cocker, Ving Rhames, Al Franken, Ronald Isley. If you're lucky, there's someone out there who adores you nearly as much as I adore Robespierre.
Rick Riordan came to town. Pronounced "RY-or-dun," not "ree-OR-dun," or "REAR-dun." He's the author of The Lightning Thief books, but his appearance didn't seem to have been particularly well-publicized; it was mentioned on the public library website and on a poster at the library entrance. Of course, I don't get out much, and I have little patience for our newspaper and the TV news, so for all I know there were commercials and fliers and billboards and lawn signs and skywriting that I never saw. The swooning excitement of my daughter and her friends might have tipped me off, however, or the note on the sign that said doors would open at 6:00 and the program would commence at 7:00. It didn't really matter, though, since I had to be at Robespierre's band banquet at the same time, so I'd arranged for the Cupcake to attend with a friend. Her friend's mother brought all three of her kids, and mine, each toting a couple books to be autographed.
When they arrived at 5:30, the line stretched out the door and around the building. Ultimately, nearly 1500 people turned up for this event. Do you know what 1500 looks like? It looks kind of like this:
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Except imagine that instead of a well-aligned and well-behaved bunch of "o"s, you have anxious kids accompanied by parents-who-only-want-the-best-for-their-children and would try anything to push themselves to the front of the line to get it. ("Seriously," the man pleaded, "I'm hypoglycemic... aaand I'm phobic about lightning... aaannnd the dog ate my homework... and I'm pregnant! Yeah, that's it. I have to get inside.")
Oh, and April showers might bring May flowers, but May where we live? Thunderstorms. Lightning (not completely inappropriate in this instance, but still...) Tornadoes. Power outages.
They stood in line. The crowd grew. They received group line tickets for an audience. The crowd expanded. They saw friends from school. The rain came. The crowd got wet. They got inside. The crowd doubled every 15 minutes. The rain came down harder, accompanied by thunder and lightning. Trees exploded. Power lines fell. The angels wept.
They waited FOUR. HOURS. to meet the author. Cupcake, who'd read the last book in the series eighttimes in one week (no, that's not a typo), was too tongue tied to say anything other than "Thanks" when her turn finally came (I know -- unbelievable for a nine-year-old who writes her own blog). Each visitor was limited to four signed books; Cupcake and her friend persuaded him to personalize one more for a friend who couldn't make it to the library extravaganza.
Now we have two autographed Percy Jackson books in our library; I suspect they'd be on the short list if the house ever caught fire (heaven forbid). Meanwhile, I've had to place a moratorium on any more Lightning Thief reading for the moment. Can you develop an addiction to a book series?
Before Robespierre was born I visualized him: what he'd look like, what kind of baby he'd be, whether I could ever forgive him for causing me so much relentless pain and nausea. After he came along I worried about whether I understood him, whether I'd bonded with him appropriately, whether I'd recognize him if he were stirred into a huge bowl 'o' babies.
As I worried and fretted about bonding, we bonded. I assimilated every pudgy finger and toe; the feel of his shiny, golden curls; the bells I heard ringing whenever he smiled that gummy grin. I learned his idiosyncrasies, his uniquenesses, his rhythms and habits. I knew what made him smile, laugh, settle down.
Before the Cupcake came along, I visualized her -- as another Robey. In my imagination she looked and acted exactly like her brother, and my worries about her usually had something to do with what effect she'd have on him. After two years of days, and closets, dominated by manly blue clothing (all right, the velour sleeper with the duck feet bordered on the ridiculous, but at least it was blue) I was shocked every time I saw the closet filled with pink and lavender.
I learned her too. I discovered her sleeping and eating patterns; her dimpled elbows; her smoochable cheeks; her ways of dealing with triumph and frustration; her brown hair and hazel eyes that in no way resembled her brother's.
How silly I was. How silly to think that my kids would be as alike as Oreos, when really they were as different as banana bread and apple pie (sorry -- did I take that metaphor too far?). There's no denying they're related; there's no doubt they adore each other (even when they fight); still, how foolish I was to believe that they'd turn out exactly the same.
By the same token, how silly of me to believe that our new puppy would channel her adoptive sister.
When Miss Puppy first arrived she'd hippity hop at the end of her leash, lunging to nip at our ankles and shins; when we walked her we looked like a clumsy version of Riverdance. I finally had to resort to spraying her in the face with citronella, which our dog trainer SWORE would not hurt her (it didn't) but would very effectively gain her attention (it did).
Little Miss? Walks placidly at the end of her leash, no pulling, always to my right. Good thing PetsMart was out of the citronella stuff when we bought puppy supplies, because I'd just have had to return it. Ditto the Gentle Leader: Miss Puppy never leaves the house without it (unless she's running away), while Little Miss has never needed it (so far, anyway).
Miss Puppy runs away from me. Little Miss runs toward me whenever I call.
Miss Puppy likes to wrestle and grab my wrists in her teeth. Little Miss can barely make herself lick my hand.
Miss Puppy greets strangers with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent. Little Miss runs toward me.
Little Miss was born in a puppy mill, the offspring of purebred champions who were mistakenly sold to people who wanted only breeding stock. She spent the first five months of her life in a cage. By the time she made it to our house, she'd had almost no socialization, and it's going to take her a while to adjust to our home and family. After two weeks with us she's devoted to me but still suspicious of the kids and strangers. Miss Puppy, on the other hand, began life as the center of attention and remained so after she came to us. She has self esteem to spare, and it shows. Once again I've been duped, and I can blame only myself. I was all prepared for Miss Puppy, Part II; instead I have Little Miss: The Beginning.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson with the kids.
Tween Boy to his mother: I know how I'm going to celebrate my 21st birthday.
Mother: How's that?
Tween Boy: I'm going to a baseball game and I'm going to buy myself a beer. Then I'm going to drive to the East Side (seedy area) and drink it in an alley.
Mother: Would you like to know the real reason people go to the East Side?
Tween Boy: Yeah.
Mother: They go there to see strippers.
Tween Boy: Really? BLEAH!!
Mother: It's true.
Tween Boy: I don't care. I'm still going to drink my beer in an alley.
Bystander (whispering): You should write this down.
After less than two weeks with us Little Miss has learned to sit down in front of me or the door to let me know she wants to go outside. When I ask if she wants to go potty she wags her little piglet tail and then dances for the door.
She's still a little shy, which can certainly be forgiven for a tiny creature who spent the first six months of her life in a cage, but she's getting better.
In other news, the end of the school year is nigh, which means:
Field Day this past Monday: the kids and I spent much of Mother's Day slicing 20 watermelons and piling them in huge buckets with ice
Band Concert Tuesday night: Cupcake and I rushed to a craft store in between dropping Robey off and the start of the concert to pick up dolphin stickers for the...
Band Banquet and Sleepover: my choices are to pick up Robey between midnight and 1 am on Friday night, or by 6 am on Saturday. Which would you choose?
Author Rick Riordan's book tour visit to our public library to read from his latest book. This event occurs contemporaneously with the previous event, at opposite ends of town.
Girls On The Run: Cupcake is running with my sister because hello? I don't run.
Three baseball games in a row: Saturday morning, right after the band sleepover; Sunday after Girls on the Run; Monday evening after school
Robespierre's 12th birthday. My baby! My baby's turning 12!
Third Grade Market Day: Cupcake and her partner are manufacturing and selling cardboard keychains in exchange for 3rd grade scrip
Third Grade End-of-Year Party: we're holding a car wash; the kids (dressed modestly, I pray) will be washing parent and faculty cars out in the parking lot and then sloshing popsickles.
And you were wondering why I've been out of touch?
Robespierre sometimesfrequently usually lets his impulses get the better of him.
Robey never wants to go to bed.
I write a blog.
Have you figured out what happened yet? Anyone? No?
Clues, Round II
Because of the rain and the attempted return to a more natural state, our yard is very muddy.
The puppy can fit through the fence bars, so she has to be walked on a leash at all times.
Little Miss will go potty only if accompanied by me; the kids just distract her.
There are holes all over our yard, thanks to Miss Puppy's campaign to catch her own pet mole.
Robey spent an hour today expanding one of Miss Puppy's most impressive mole excavation projects, against hismy anyone's better judgment.
The yard is very dark at night so it's hard to see where you're walking, but really -- why would you be wandering around a dark back yard late at night?
Robey is usually still up until I drag myself to bed.
I write a blog.
Anybody?
I know you're out there -- I can hear you breathing.
No?
Setup
Late at night. I want to get ready for bed. Robespierre is still awake. Little Miss needs to go potty. We can't just let her out into the yard because she might squeeze through the fence bars and get lost. Robey takes her out on the leash but she keeps trying to come back in. After three attempts he wants to give up so I go outside with them and take the leash. She and I and Robey make figure eights around the muddy yard. I have to concentrate on her to make sure she actually goes.
I write a blog.
Have you figured it out yet?
Here's one more clue:
Come on -- you know...
Solution
I stepped in a hole. A deep hole filled with mud and water. I didn't see it because it was dark, and I was concentrating on Little Miss. Completely grossed out, I handed the leash to Robespierre and squished inside.
And, because I write a blog, the first thing I did when I came inside was -- what?
Thaaat's right -- I snapped a photo so I could write about it.
Why is it always men who do this type of thing? If I'd read this article with all the names and pronouns blacked out, I would have known without a doubt that all the participants were men under the age of 40. Let's see -- we have:
beef (BIG beef)
cheese
bacon
road trips
complex rules
competition for nothing more than bragging rights
playoffs
golf
Yep, this thing bears the earmarks of abundant testosterone; by my assessment the only things missing are power tools and spitting. Read the entire article in the New York Times:
"ONE by one they approached the counter... and repeated the words like a mantra. Half-pound sirloin burger. Bacon. Cheddar...
“If anybody didn’t order a half,” Brett Weiss told the beefy guy taking it all down on a restaurant pad, “make them a half-pound anyway.”
Mr. Weiss, 33... is the founder and de facto leader of the Burger of the Month Club, or BOTM (which he and his friends pronounce “bottom”). One Monday a month for the last four years, they have sampled a burger — bacon-cheddar whenever available — at a different New York restaurant.
They do not just eat the burgers, they rank them, compiling the averages on a Web site, burgerrankings.com, and competing through the year to see whose restaurant choice will wind up as the best-loved burger (winner gets ... nothing)...
Healthy, it’s not. In fact, one member is on injured reserve due to cholesterol...
BOTM began in the summer of 2005, when Adam Beckerman, 32, called up Brett Weiss and said, “Let’s go eat the world’s biggest burger.”
“Adam, when we were younger and he was still single, used to call me all the time and be like, ‘Let’s do ... ’ and he didn’t have to finish the sentence because I’d say yes,” Mr. Weiss explained.
At the time, the world’s biggest burger was a 15-pounder on offer at Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub in Clearfield, Pa., about a four-hour drive from New York. Mr. Beckerman and Mr. Weiss grabbed two other hungry guys, found a raggedy golf course nearby and made a day of it: They even printed commemorative “Best Day Ever” golf balls with a burger and a golf tee.
Then they came home and started eating half-pounders.
Members take turns picking burger destinations... Most do online research as well as a taste test, since a bad pick can bring humiliation. Once each has picked, whoever picked the group’s favorites gets to pick a second time — this is known as the playoffs — and the best of those wins the year."
I don't know what possessed me to take on another dog, especially considering how high maintenance Miss Puppy has been (see here, here, here, here, here, here and here. Good grief -- maybe I should reread my own blog once in a while). Yet, there we were, driving (well, I drove -- the kids rode, although Robespierre regularly extended a kind and thoughtful offer to take over, which I regularly refused) to the Ozarks to pick up a five-month old Tibetan Terrier rescue puppy.
I'd applied to rescue a TT in January but nothing came of it; I figured I'd adopt a dog while the kids were away at camp and I foolishly mistook being well-rested for invincibility.
But two weeks ago the TT rescue lady called to ask if I'd be interested in a puppy that had been saved from spending the rest of her life as an unhappy breeder in a puppy mill. The woman who had her buys as many dogs as she can afford at livestock auctions, takes them home, has them neutered, and posts them on Pet Finder. She sells them to loving homes for the cost of her expenses and spends the money she makes on buying and placing more at risk dogs. She also participates in tag-team style pet transports reminiscent of the Underground Railroad, by which adoptable dogs are relayed from driver to driver in a cross-country journey to their new homes. The day I spoke with her she had 18 dogs at her house, waiting to be adopted or shipped to new families.
How could I say no?
(By the way -- do you know Pet Finder? It's "the temporary home of 276,190 adoptable pets from 12,545 adoption groups." Included in their inventory are:
So Saturday we dropped Miss Puppy off at the kennel, loaded up the truck and moved to Beverleeee car with snacks, drinks and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on CD, and drove. We drove on the freeway. We drove on two lane highways. We drove on gravel roads. We drove through villages, university towns and farmland. We drove through Bush land and McCain land, but precious little Obama land as far as I could tell.
(And you know what we saw on nearly every corner? Dead armadillos. Must've seen nearly 50 dead armadillos, not to mention dead cats, dead dogs, dead skunks, dead raccoons, and one very large dead deer. I began to consider that maybe if we'd left earlier we could have just picked up a couple of pet armadillos in the early morning hours before they got smushed by pickup trucks, but we'd already bought puppy chow and I'm not sure if Purina even makes armadillo chow.)
After four hours of driving, snacking, listening, and stopping for potty breaks, we arrived at Betty Goldstein's house, introduced ourselves to Betty and the Little Miss, wrote a check (that was my job), loaded ourselves back into the car, and headed home, with Little Miss snoozing on a towel the entire way.
Adjustment?
No accidents so far.
The pups have become quite attached to each other already.
Little Miss is beginning to get over her skittishness with people.
Yesterday she played with a dog toy for probably the first time in her life.
Blame Sony then, because my POS Vaio went out AGAIN; it goes out more than I do. This time it was the hard drive AGAIN; it's been replaced but of course I've had to spend three days trying to get back to where I started and I suspect I've lost a lot of documents and photos.
