The eyes have it

The other night while we were watching TV, a mascara commercial came on and my husband said, with equal parts incredulity and disgust, "Who wears that stuff?"

"I do," I answered. "Pretty much every day."

He really couldn't believe it. I didn't know whether to be flattered, or bemused at his lack of awareness.

Mostly I just thought it was funny, because after all I don't wear mascara for him. It's for me. A little makeup (whatever can be applied in less than four minutes) helps me feel like the face in the mirror matches the one in my mind's eye.

Call me shallow, but I don't see anything wrong with that.

Sturgeon stein, frankenfish

I can't believe I almost missed writing about sturgeon season. It has been a source of endless fascination for me since we moved here. The arcane rules, the family tradition, the regionality--it hooks me right in (HA).

This year I hadn't had anything new to say. Plus I was so disappointed: Our next-door neighbor speared a 68-pound fish this season, and he even came over to see if we were home so he could show it to the kids (he didn't know I would have been so much more into it than them). Alas, we weren't around and by the time we found out about his big catch, the beast was already filleted and filling up the freezer.

As a consolation prize, Jeff got me this beer glass. Now is that true love or what?

*

Over at The Full Mommy today, I have a Parent Bloggers Network review of the most adorable (unlike sturgeon--they will win no marine beauty contests) Sylvania PalPODzzz rocket-ship nightlight/flashlight. A flashlight equipped with LED bulbs and NO batteries? Very space-age.

Double wordless score

Does it count as wordless if you post a picture that contains words? Well, who cares. This is a list of what the children plan to do this weekend. #3: "Punching Dad on the but[t]."

I'm wordless over here too.

How I met your father

Once upon a time (I'm going to tell you a story, or maybe an LSAT practice question) I dated a guy named Glenn. Glenn worked with a woman named Lori. Lori lived with a man named Bob. Bob had some grade-school friends named Mark and Dave. Mark had a college friend named Jeff. Jeff had a business associate named Ron.

Are you following? Sometime after Glenn flew the coop, I went to a party at Bob and Lori's. There I met Mark and Dave. Mark asked for my number. We went out on a date. It was at a comedy club which was apparently having a bl-w j-b theme night. Every single comedian decided to discuss that particular topic. Hi. First date over here. Awkward.

Still, there was at least one other date that I recall before things petered out (pun not really intended), as things do. But occasionally I would see Mark at Bob and Lori's. A few months later, Bob called to say that Ron had given Jeff tickets to a football game, but Jeff couldn't use them; did I want them? I couldn't go to the game but Bob seemed insistent. So I found someone else who could use the tickets. Then I had to meet Jeff at his office building, conveniently located next to mine, to pick up the tickets.

The rest is history. And this past weekend, we (Jeff, Bob, me, and a few others) finally watched Mark get married too. It was definitely the best Jewish-Nicaraguan wedding I've ever attended. Mazel tov!

Halloweeners

That is what my husband calls the characters I would call "trick-or-treaters." And a few stopped by our house tonight. We gave away about 10 bags' worth of candy and were down to our last three tiny boxes of Dots (I didn't buy those!) when time was up. Our favorite Halloweener was dressed as a "killer banana." He wore a banana suit with a bloody hockey mask and carried a big scary knife. One of our friends' kids came by dressed as a ninja. My husband disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a slice of sweet potato carved into a throwing star. He so crafty!

Look out! Killer bananas!

8 is not enough

It hasn't been all sweetness and (crazy overexposed) light. But it's been pretty sweet.

Happy 8th anniversary!

10 commandments of dishwasher use

1. I am the automatic dishwasher; thou shalt not have any other gods before me, and believe that a five-second spin under the faucet is my equal.

2. Thou shalt not take the name of the dishwasher in vain, and curse it for not unloading itself.

3. Remember the dishwasher and keep it holy; thou shalt not run it during the dinner hour.

4. Honor thy father and thy mother, and learn to place your dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and not under the couch.

5. Thou shalt not kill your meltable objects by placing them in the lower rack.

6. Thou shalt not cheat by running the dishwasher when it is not full.

7. Thou shalt not steal space through inefficient loading.

8. Thou shalt not bear false witness by claiming disposable items are meant to be washed and reused. And that includes 100-to-a-box drinking straws.

9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, if it has two dishwashers instead of one.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, who unloads the dishwasher in a more timely manner.

This post may possibly have been inspired by the people in this house with whom I share a dishwasher. Maybe.

Happy belated

We were busy spending the weekend at The Waterpark Capital of the WORLD so I didn't have a chance to observe Father's Day with the traditional tie power tool blog post. (I also forgot to bring the gifts and cards I did buy along with us so they have yet to be bestowed.)

So here's my overdue salute to the one who rides the rollercoasters, rescues the fish from the garbage disposal, mows the lawn, cooks the gourmet meals, makes up the silly songs ... and never poses for pictures.

And to the one who flew the biplane and plays the banjo and just came out of surgery half an hour ago, too. (He's doing well.)

Card from someecards -- a site I highly recommend.

Another trip around the sun

Happy birthday to the man of the house!

We celebrated with sushi (yes, we can get sushi in Mayberry. And it hasn't killed us yet) and Star Wars ("Daddy! Open this one! It's ALL the Star Wars in there!") and homemade mint-chip ice cream. Our niece even called and played him the Star Wars theme on the piano over the phone, in an unintentionally thematic coda to the evening.

Many many happy returns sweetie. May the Force ... well, you know.

Iceberg summer

And no I'm not referring to these upper midwestern climes we now enjoy. Actually, summers here are beautiful, with sunshine and temperatures in the 80s for much of July and August. After winters that go on, and on, and on and on, we enjoy and appreciate our summers and spend as much time outside as we can. Mayberry has a totally kid-pleasing community pool, with a huge shallow end, two water slides, a sandbox, a lawn, and the all-important concession stand. We're also not above ruining our new grass with a blow-up kiddie pool of our own and even one of these monstrosities (purchased on end-of-season clearance thx). Yep -- we are big consumers of the Little Swimmers 'round these parts.

We have fun. But it's nothing compared to the adventures my husband had when he was a kid. His aunt and uncle had a lake house (a 20-minute drive from their ... non-lake house) and he and his brother and cousins would spend every day of every summer there, just generally goofing off and having a good time.

My favorite lake story is this, and it's totally of the moment because we are currently obsessed with all things Star Wars in this house. (Tip, BTW: Pool noodles make excellent, cheap light sabers.)

Anyway (get to the point young Jedi) one day Jeff and his brother and his brother's friend Marc found this big piece of styrofoam. They immediately decided that it would make an excellent iceberg and it should go on the lake. The next time they came to the lake they brought every single Star Wars figure they owned -- i.e., hundreds -- plus a bunch of spacecraft and airplanes. Then they spent an hour painstakingly setting up a huge battle scene on the styrofoam iceberg.

Their masterpiece complete, they floated it onto the water.

You know what happens next, right?

It floated too far out, and Jeff's mom wouldn't let them go after it. They threw rocks at it, trying to shift the current to send it back toward their dock. Instead, they ended up breaking it and sending all their guys to an even swifter watery death. Some clung to the edge for awhile, but with no rescue crew in sight eventually they succumbed to the inevitable drowning.

For the rest of that summer and all the next, Jeff and Mike and Marc hoped against hope that Luke or Han or Lando would wash up on shore and be returned to them. It never happened, but the story lives on.

Tell your summer story for this weekend's blog blast. May the Force be with you.

Happy with just a teensy side of guilt

That's how I'm observing Mother's Day, because isn't that what mothering is all about? At my request Jeff took the kids out for the day, an extended dance mix of outings and errands designed to give me some time alone to putter around. So far, a little yoga, a little laundry, a long shower, a little Sunday Times, a little blogging while I wait for photos to upload to send to the grandmas.

I didn't necessarily need the time alone to happen today of all days, and I do feel kind of bad that I've kicked my own kids out of the house on a holiday which I wouldn't celebrate if it were not for them. But we had breakfast together at the diner and we'll have dinner together later and I'll happily take on the whole bedtime routine because my husband will be worn out by 7 p.m. And I won't mind at all.

Photo from the kindergarten Mother's Day party.

Princess much?

Yesterday evening, Opie had a high fever and so was unusually content to lounge on the couch watching Noggin. (He's fine now.) Jo, disdaining the "baby shows," decamped to the backup TV in the basement. She proceeded to holler up the steps every few minutes with some desperate need or another. Finally, Jeff taught her how to use the intercom feature on the telephone so she could call him if she needed something.

Naturally, five minutes later she did. I heard his end (snicker) of the conversation: "You called me on the phone because you need me to wipe your butt?"

True story. And that is something nobody told us before we had kids.

Booooop ... crash ... bang

The only thing more annoying than watching someone else play a video game is being forced to listen to someone else play a video game.

That is all.

Can't ... post ... brain ... frozen

This post from last year pretty well sums it up (I see I reached the breaking point a few weeks later in '07 than I have in '08).

I knew what I was getting into when we moved here. When Jeff was considering taking the job that brought us to Mayberry, his company flew us here for a recruiting visit. In January. The temperature never rose above 5 degrees F the whole time we were here and I think there was about a foot of snow on the ground.

It was also the first weekend away, alone, we'd had since we became parents nearly two years before. We ate nice meals, we shopped leisurely, we drove around and looked at houses 3 times the size of our apartment that we could actually afford to buy. We went to a chamber music concert. We stayed in a really nice hotel. Need I say more?

Those wily recruiters. Look where it got me.

You-gotta-be-kidding below zero

Jeff goes to the big game

The ticket was free, but he easily spent its face value on cold-weather gear. Let's hope he makes it back with all his fingers and toes.

Top secrets of a patient mother

Other moms have occasionally told me that they admire my patience with my children. And it's true that I am pretty good (pretty good, not saintly good) at keeping my cool even when the offspring get ornery. I work hard at reminding myself that they are very small and they really want positive attention. I pick my battles. I distract, I redirect, I vow that we'll all get more sleep.

And I send them to child care 32 hours a week. That's secret #1.

Secret #2, and it's s a dirty one: I vent any and all frustration onto my husband. Speaking of redirection... he gets it all. Kids being bratty? Instead of lashing out at them, I give it to him for not being around, or for saying the wrong thing when he is here. Someone drops/spills/hits something? I can find a way that it's his fault.

I know it's not fair, I know it's not right, and I know I keep doing it anyway.