Evolution 101

Evolutionary Lesson: apply the least effort to achieve the greatest reward





Lesson Learned*

*No, a dog did not chew through the box.  A child tore the smallest hole he could to still pull the bar out.

Iceland Again

I think they have the celebrating part figured out.  The banging of pots and pans, honking of horns: both classics.  And the government has toppled/resigned so I guess the yogurt worked after all.

Maybe they will see a surge in immigration from the US.  All of those people here who don't much care for "big government" might look at "no government" as a nice option.  

Dear Sexy Man in My Headphones,

The answer to your question is yes, very much so.

And now I have a question for you.

What was this I paid for?  I thought I was purchasing an MP3 Cardio Workout.  I think you sent me Frustrated Housewife Porn by mistake.  These are some of the points that have me questioning if I received the correct product:

Not all of the heavy breathing was from me running on the treadmill.  The climax of the music track was, well, climactic.  And it was usually accompanied by some dirty talk from you.  "That was Hot.  That was Intense.  Take 2 minutes to yourself and I'll be back to cool you down and stretch you out."  During the "peaks" of the interval training you kept it up: "Don't slow down.  Keep pushing.  Hold on.  It's coming.  Don't touch anything, just keep grinding."  The part that confused me the most was when you shouted, "Hit it!"  Isn't that supposed to me my line?  Check your script. 

If you could send me the correct exercise file in an email I would appreciate it.  It was a great workout and I am interested in seeing, um, if you perhaps have a catalog of your other titles and selections.  Thanks for being discreet. 

Which question was it I answered above?  The one at the end where you asked me if I liked the view from the top.

A Visit From The Ghost of Children Future

Moose just got back from making the Cricket Run. He also got dog food and some people food. The crickets are for dear Eduardo. But he also got himself some deodorant.  The scent is called swagger.  What the heck does a swagger smell like?  We don't know.  But we know what it looks like because he is walking around like he rode a rough horse on his Cricket Run.  And he keeps saying "swagger" in a voice that sounds a little like Joe from The Family Guy.  

At least you only had to read about it.  We are living it.  It is like he is channelling The Cap'n (my cousin's husband, find him at Cricket and Pip on my blog list).  

Miss M, in a tone and timing that can only be described as Junior High, says to him: "Oh.  Dad.  Why are you doing that?"

Is that tone and timing a hormonally triggered thing?  Like the pituitary gland says to her body, "OK, here we go.  Longer limbs.  Round things out a bit.  A mild sprinkling of pimples.  And the ability to feel deeply embarrassed by your parents.  That'll do for now.  See you in 6 months."

Join me

I am thinning out my house. My goal for 2009 is 100 Cubic IKEA Bags worth of stuff. I just want it out of here. I have to catch up for January, but if I average 2 bags a week that should give me a little play for busy weeks. But if you have ever been in my house (and I don't mean the clean parts we show guests, I mean the basement and the 5th bedroom and the closets and the...) you will understand me when I say stopping somewhere and filling a bag should take 5 to 10 minutes of my time. This is a very manageable goal.

Why don't you join me?

Comment on here, tell me your standard unit of measurement and your goal. I will keep running totals for you all and even send email reminders if you would like. At the least I will post occasional reminders on 4go4e.

I just started yesterday and I am already at 4 bags of donations. I also have small piles set aside for certain people that I will add on when I get them in the mail!

Come on...live a little lighter!

Little C discovers...

...Photo Booth!

Please Explain

Icelanders are up in arms and rioting against their government for the total lack of banking oversight that resulted in the complete collapse of their economy.  Ok.  Makes sense.  I'd be a little ticked off if our government told us we would have to cover our national debt because they ran out of money.  And what a fall.  Iceland is always near the top of those lists of  productive, diversified, egalitarian, and civil places.  They had been enjoying a bit of an economic boom before this crash.  Sound at all familiar?  

So, yes, the protesting.  They are throwing yogurt in defiance.  In my opinion, this is neither violence nor peaceful non-violence.  So as a means of protesting it just seems, well, odd.  And messy.  And a bit slick when frozen.

And what I am wondering is if there is some cultural nuance that I am unaware of.  Please enlighten me if you are up on your Icelandic understanding.  Perhaps someone in the government shouted, "Let them eat yogurt" from the balcony of the parliament building.  Maybe there are several yogurt vendors in the neighborhood and it happens to be a convenient and inexpensive (remember, the economy has collapsed) item to purchase and fling at those who are thought to be responsible for the fiasco.  Maybe it is just a catchy marketing phrase: The Yogurt Mess.  Like The Cod Wars in the 1970's arguing with the UK over fishing rights.  Or maybe it is symbolic.  I am wondering if there is a parable somewhere of a simple yogurt maid who stood up for her rights during the unwelcome Allied occupation during WWII.  

I would like to understand this.  Any information would be appreciated.  Thank you.

NO photos accompany this story!

I am blatantly using a quote here while I have no idea who the source is.  Tut tut.  Bad form.  I want to guess at Steven Wright or George Carlin but I can't find it online anywhere to confirm.  It might have been on a Snapple lid.  If you happen to know who said "Maybe your purpose in life is to be the bad example for others" please tell them they are brilliant for me.  

Today it was my turn to do something stupid that you all can learn from without the pain and blisters and scarring to go along with it.

I don't know if you know this about me, but I tend to touch hot things after they come out of the oven.  I use mitts to remove things, set them on a trivet, and then get distracted and turn around to move them again without the mitts.  It has happened often enough that the rest of the inhabitants of our little enclave here remind me frequently about 400 degree glass dishes on the counter.  Moose is particularly vigilant.  But this little mishap slipped past all of his security measures.  But it is not his fault.  I wasn't even in the kitchen.

We have a trapezoid shaped edition that was used originally as an orchid greenhouse by the family that built our house.  It has glass doors or windows on all four sides.  We used it as a playroom when the kidlets were small.  They loved shutting the doors and being all secretive while blissfully oblivious to the fact they could be seen from all angles.  We called it the kid aquarium.

Now that they don't use the space I have my desk, treadmill, and a couch in there.  I am painfully aware of being viewed from all angles so I tend to leave the curtains shut.  Anyway, the room has slate floors and the space under it is not heated so it gets very cold in here in the winter.  I have a small space heater with a fan to keep it cozy when I am in there working.  

[Admit it.  You have been thinking, "WTF! The Mama is crazy random today."  Stick with me.  I'll bring it all home for you.]

I had just finished helping kidlets with homework and Moose was making French Toast for dinner and I was felling a little chilly.  So I dropped down in Child's Pose to stretch and warm my back in front of the heater.  It was nice and warm.  Until I sat up.  Then it was red hot!  You see, I just lost 8 pounds and my jeans are rather loose and had slid a little low...

All of which is a round about way to tell you I have blisters on my ass!  I have a second degree burn the size of my index finger that is centered right above (slight overlap) my bumper cleavage.  The good news is I can't feel it yet.  The bad news is...hello!  I seared my flanks!

I am the bad example.  I might even be the take home story from the nurse call line.  "Whew!  Tonight some lady called in and she burned her butt.  I don't know, she claims it was from resting near a heater.  I wonder what she was really doing that resulted in a 2nd degree burn back there!"  

Star Wars Trivia

I venture to guess that you do not know something about Clone Troopers.  Even if you have people around you that talk about Star Wars constantly and read every book they can get on the subject and have a knowledge base on the subject that runs much deeper than the movies even skim over, you might not know this.  If you ARE one of those people you might be in for a bit of a shock here.  I can assume with confidence because I live with three little people whose understanding of the subject is convention-worthy and I just discovered this bit of information myself.  BTW, they are not the dressing up as your favorite Jedi kind of convention goer.  We are talking key note speakers and youth ambassadors here.

Anyway...it appears that inside every white molded suits there is a wee slip of a monkey in flannel jammies working the controls.  

Hmmm?

Anyone know what McHankin is up to tonight?

post-run conversation

Little C: Mama, you are all sweaty.  Is that why you stopped?

Mama: No, baby.  That's why I started.

The Basics

When they start to fuss tell them you read The Book.  The one they give us (wink! wink!) when we have kids.  The one that tells us how to be good parents.  And the book said that once the child starts to whine, there is no chance they can have what it was they were fussing for.  It undermines the whole system if we cave!  Once they start the fussing, they get the opposite of what they desire.  

Crying to stay up later?  Oops.  That means to bed right now and early tomorrow too.

Whining at the store for a toy?  What?  I can't hear you because the noise you just made damaged my ears for the next 90 seconds.  Walk on.

Kicking the cabinets because you want cookies for breakfast?  Oops.  Now you have to sit and watch me eat the cookie while you have oatmeal.

Crossing your arms in a huff and refusing to get ready to go because you don't want to stop playing legos to go to practice?  Oops.  Good luck finding those legos when you get home from practice.

And, yes, I am a hard ass but I am not hard hearted.  Along with teaching my kids what is unacceptable I give them tools for getting what they need.

Yes you can show me the toys you like at the store and tell me what you like about them.  It makes it easier to remember them when I want to buy you something!

Yes you can tell your sibling you would like a turn when they are done and I promise that you will be able to control your own turn.

Yes you can explain to me why this meal is not your favorite and suggest changes to the recipe for next time as you eat it anyway.

Yes you can tell me how my comment about that outfit made you feel.

There is a goal to parenting, and having a well-behaved, compassionate child is just the beginning.  What kind of adult are you raising?

This is what I want for my children.  I want them to think for themselves.  I want them to work hard at school so no option in life is denied them.  I want them to have the tools to function peaceably in this world.  I want them to speak up for themselves when they think they are being treated unfairly.  I want them to speak up for others who can't.  I want them to understand people have a choice in how they respond to others and while we do have an impact on those around us, we are not responsible for someone else's happiness.  I want them to identify their contribution to the problems they face as well as recognizing their role in improving the situation.  Whining and fussing do not accomplish these things.  I would be doing my children a disservice if I let them add those behaviors to their tool box.

We have distilled all of the rules around here into three simple ones:

Respect yourself.

Respect others.

Respect your surroundings.

In the span of 10 minutes:

Miss M: How do you sustain that constant rate of babble?  I can talk, chica, like few people I know.  But you put me to shame.  Brava!

Big C: Whatever you did at school today that put you in such a great mood at the end of it, please repeat!  You are working on your homework without a fuss.  You have chosen a book to sit and read when you are done.  I think I have gotten three hugs already.  Please repeat!

Little C: I know you are mad.  I know because you told me so.  But I had a clue before that, what with all the yelling and wiping of snot on my belly at the coffee shop.  And I have to say, I admire your ability to stay clear headed in the face of not getting what you want.  Here's how the scene played out:

FADE IN...

INTERIOR: LIVING ROOM, DAY

MAMA

(calmly)

What did you think I meant when I said stop the fussing or there will be no hot chocolate for you?

LITTLE C

(sobbing) 

That I wouldn't get any if I kept fussing.

MAMA

(calmly)

And what did you choose?

LITTLE C

(sobbing)

To keep fussing.

MAMA

(calmly)

So why are you surprised that you can't have the cocoa?

Little C falls to the floor on his knees.  His eyes close and his head rolls back.  He drops his arms to his sides, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender.  His mouth is wide open and a siren wail is emanating from within.

MAMA

(calmly)

Do you want to rest in my bed or your bed?

LITTLE C

(sobbing)

My bed.

INTERIOR: LITTLE C'S BEDROOM, DAY

LITTLE C

(sobbing)

Mama?  I want you to know that I am not pitching a fit because of the hot chocolate anymore.  I am pitching a fit because now I am not having an after school snack with Miss M and Big C.  Please close my door.

FADE OUT...

Jumping off a bridge...

...and other ill-advised things to do on skis at my age:

Being of some Nordic descent and living in a Nordic climate, I grew up cross country skiing.  Which is now called Nordic Skiing, either Skating or Classic.  I am a classic kind of Mama.  I got my first skis when I was 2 and spent a decent portion of every winter on them until I went to college.  Last week I found my old skis while looking for my hockey skates and took them out for a spin.  

There is a lovely nature preserve near our house with curvy, narrow trails.  Rolling hills, lots of trees.  Nothing groomed.  You are somewhat at the mercy of the track quality laid down before you got there.  It is worth the risk, though, to be the only person on the acreage, leaving your trail in the snow with the wildlife.  The rabbits mostly just cross the trails, mice too, trying to stay under cover of the trees with all the hawks and owls about.  The deer seem to wander wherever they like, often following next to the trails.  The coyote like to poop on the trails but leave few paw prints otherwise.  At least I hope it's the coyote.  If not it means my fellow skiers are leaving behind more than sloppy trails.

There are a couple of creeks running through the park and they are spanned by narrow, wooden bridges.  They are flat with no edge to them.  Very simple.  My first time out last week I got on the first bridge and noticed the slight drop at the other side of it.  Feeling all Alpha and whatnot for not having fallen down yet, I was filling my own head with stories of the fast return of my prowess.  So I decide to get a couple of hard pushes and take a tiny jump off the end of it.  That would be Thing #1 Not To Do your first time on skis in over 15 years as a 36 year old mother of three who has spent the past couple of years trying to recover from a bad running injury.  At take off, prior to landing, I felt a slight tear above my pubic bone.  Not a hernia, just a good old fashioned pulled muscle.  But not anything that would keep me off my feet.  

I went out again Saturday just before dusk.  I watched the full moon rise through the branches of the oak savanna.  The sky was perfectly clear and I had a very good view of it all from my position flat on my back in the snow.  You see, when I got to that bridge again I thought if I just focus on pushing off from a more tucked position and contracting my abs then I could take that little hop without injury.  Turns out I was right as far as the take off went.  I neglected to work through a plan for landing, however, and my skis shot out from under me.  Thus the stellar view of the darkening night sky.  And thus the dancing stars I was seeing and the throbbing pain in my head where I bounced it off of the edge of the bridge.  Once I was breathing again, I got up and continued on, though perhaps a little more slowly than before.  So it seems that Thing #2 is really just a reminder to learn from Thing #1 and stop trying to jump off the bridge.

I went out again this afternoon.  New snow was falling heavily from a grey winter sky and I was looking forward to being out in it.  I decided to take the trails in reverse, and venture up onto the east hill.  At some level I am sure I was removing the temptation to try the jump again.  Just before the top of a bigger hill, the strap on my pole broke!  It slipped out of some factory installed crevice and there was no way I was going to get it back in there.  So I improvised an alternative which did not hold, I discovered, when I left one pole behind on top of the hill as I was yelling (chtshan!) my way down the hill.  Thing #3 Not To Do is ski with faulty equipment.  So I herringboned my way up with one pole, tried another way to make the strap hold, tested it this time, and then went down the hill again without the cussing.  

Thing #4 Not To Do is to not know what is around the sharp turn at the bottom of a hill.  These trails are literally one-ass wide.  And since I was approaching them from a different direction I was not thinking that there was anything dangerous ahead.  But as I was cruising along in my Alpha Miss Fix It kind of mood, tucked down and enjoying the turns on this long hill, I came around a bend and saw it: that damned bridge.  But this time I was coming at the other side of it.  The one that is a 9 inch step up and I was coming at it with some speed behind me.  Did I mention these trails are narrow?  There were trees on either side of me so I looked ahead and saw an open space to the right of the bridge and I aimed for it.  I took a graceful side slide/fall on purpose and as I was getting up I realized that my skis are sticking out over a 2 foot drop into the rocky creek bed.  Close one.

Moose has asked that I go skiing somewhere with witnesses who can call for help in the event that I should require assistance.  I'll think about it.  This is the closest I am ever going to get to the X-games!

A Prana of fresh air

So I found my dream sweater at the REI winter clearance sale.  What?  You don't have a dream sweater?  Sure you do.  Don't you sit in a drafty spot because you love the natural light and it offers the one view of the one landscaped section of your yard, wishing you had one piece that took care of that nagging draft?

-cozy about the neck

-covers your lower back

-long enough to warm your bumper

-looks classic over jeans or a skirt to pick up the kids

-looks good over flannel pajamas

-looks good over a nightie and doesn't scratch!

-sleeves are roomy enough to drape back when you give a cliche

  shake of your arms before sitting down to write

Then there is the little matter of pockets.  When I was in High School, I used to keep candy in my navy uniform sweater pockets.  Sweet Tarts, Tart-n-Tinys, and Smarties worked well because they didn't melt and didn't make a clickity noise like those darned Gobstoppers and Spree.  And while pockets, based on a sweet sentimentality, were on the "like to have" list and not the "needs" list, they are a treat to have.  I feel like Prana (www.prana.com) read my mind and made this sweater just for me!  BTW, I love everything I have from Prana: my favorite 70's cords, my favorite knit hat (the brown one you can't see in the post about my scarf), and my favorite yoga tank.

Having failed all season to find the perfect sweater I was really thinking about knitting one.  But the size of the project was a bit daunting.  Plus, I approach knitting like a brain teaser.  I don't use patterns.  And I am not up for the trial and error involved in a big project.  Re-starting a baby sweater is no big deal.  But a Mama sweater is another thing.  And now I don't have to!  I can get started on the felted slippers I want to try.

I think this means I can finally retire the vintage (is 16 years old enough to be vintage?) JCrew sweater.  It is an olive green chunky knit cotton classic v-neck cardigan...with pockets.  It is big and baggy and SO soft and I wear it all around the house, including to bed.  I have never really worn it outside or as part of an outfit.  It has been more of a house coat.  I didn't wear it at all for years and years.  Mostly because it was packed away.  But it was packed away because I bought it for a boyfriend in college.  It was the last Christmas gift I gave him before we broke up and the only gift I took back.  I went in his dorm room and just took it.  Not to have a piece of him, but because I really loved the sweater.  It reminded me of my grandfather.  I didn't even leave a note.  But now it is coming apart at the seams and the elbows are worn terribly thin.  I am going to save it though.  Not because of any sentimental feelings about a boy...but because of sentimental feelings about a sweater.  Plus it will be the perfect addition to my Halloween costume next year...

baby girl

>
I came across this picture of Miss M while searching for a baby photo to send in for the yearbook.

I love the expression on her face in this picture: open and inviting, with a healthy dose of smirk. 

It is pretty close to the look on her face when she was born.  This might be TMI for some, so just stop if you need to.  Look at the cute photo and go on with your day.  But Miss M was born with her eyes open and she spent the next several hours very quietly watching everything with those huge eyes.  How funny that she was already so much of who she would become in those early moments.     

And this is the giant creature she has grown into.  She had positioned herself on this park bench to subtly blend into the background.  Because she is always looking at things she is the kind of kid who recognized her clothes matched the bench and sidewalk.  And she did it with a smirk.  

I love how she thinks: about the world, about others, and about herself.  She makes me smirk!

chtshan!

I am making soup for diner.  Some combination of French Onion and 7 Mushroom Tarragon.  Thinking about homemade croutons with white truffle oil.  Thin slice of Gruyere floating on top.  Mmmmm. 

What?  Why did I swear in the title of this post?  Well...burning one's cleavage tends to elicit a few choice words--it is a tender spot.  I flicked some onion off the spoon and it went down my blouse and STUCK to me!!  It was close to caramelized and blazing hot with butter.  What I can't figure out is how it got so far in there it burned both of my girls!  They are pushed up and together without much room in there.  Must have been the butter.  Slid right in before it seared my flesh.

What?  You didn't catch the cuss word?  Well...it is sort of an inside joke between me and, um, seems like myself.  

(Reference December 30th post plus comments.)

I feel a hiss coming on...

Someone has sent me an email about aprons.  About all the things they were used for (pot holders and wiping noses and keeping dresses tidy) like they were the dearest items that bound together the home and family instead of an oversized dish towel you tied on so as not to loose it.  It got a little preachy and rather snotty when it came to criticizing young mothers for not wearing aprons anymore and for buying pies.  I am not exactly sure, it was hard to read while my eyes were rolling.  But it has left me wondering about what messy cooks they all must have been because I don't get dirty making dinner.  And also, not everyone can make a good pie.  I have quite recently politely poked at a homemade pie with soggy, pale crust and a jaw-locking amount of sugar in the filling.  No apron would have saved that dessert.  There is no shame in buying pie!

Once in a while there is a chain-letter telling me (and 100,000 other people) how unique and wonderful I am--pass it on!  Some of them are about how great life used to be.  Which seems like an odd thing to send to someone who wasn't around yet when things were so fabulous.  "Look how precious and sweet life was before you were born.  [Sigh]"  It is always nice to hear about how my generation is messing everything up from the people who messed it all up for the generation before them.  Several have had pictures of cats saying things in little speech bubbles.  Sometimes the cats dance.  Or pray.  I guess it makes as much sense as anything else. 

No one seems to care anymore who their audience is.  No one had to buy a stamp to send it so they will just keep rolling into my inbox.  There was a whole rash of anti-liberal-themed ones AFTER the presidential election.  Not trying to change my mind about anything.  Not trying to impact my decision at the voting booth.  Just complaining with a "wait and see" added for good measure.  A sort of "I am telling you now so I can say I told you so later and STILL feel like I am right and you are wrong" tone to them.  But me and my liberal pals have been complaining for the past 8 years so I guess it is their turn.  

Rarely do I forward one along.  If I do, it is usually done with a sarcastic comment or an "lol!" to Moose at work.  But I did forward one to my sister today that my cousin had sent me.  It was about horrible bacteria that will eat your breast flesh if you don't wash your new sweat-shop-made bras before wearing them.  She is still breast feeding a most precious baby and I couldn't bear the thought of the infantina contracting the disease!  Big Sis ran it through some sort of "truth meter" web site which has said the email is a hoax.  (She should run that "dinosaurs were on this planet alongside people and were all killed off by Noah's flood" story through there.)  I still ignored the Dry Clean Only label and put my new Calvin Klien Sweater Dress through the dryer once anyway just to be safe.  I happen to have fantastic boobers and the mere thought of them rotting off my body is enough to make me bathe in Listerine.  I have to find that web site because I have a long list of things to run through it.  I wonder if they have looked at the apron one yet.

P.S. If you are a forwarder...please learn how to highlight and erase the 8 pages of previous recipients and long blanks spaces before sending it along.  I get so impatient searching through them all to find out what those darn cats have gotten into this time.  Thanks.

Memorandum

In Reference to Posting From December 30, Entitled: Play With Me

Readers, I must look like I am playing with myself.  Perhaps you noticed the bit of help from my cousin?  I implore your assistance to keep us from looking like inbred, soror patruelisphiles.  

Please contribute.

-the mgmt.