Capacious

Weekend of the Small Sweatshirt

I came downstairs on Saturday morning and my husband was wearing a very small sweatshirt.  He said he was cold, and it was the only thing he could find to wear.  It cracked me up so much that I could not speak to him without giggling for several hours, and the giggling recurred at odd intervals all weekend.  The sweatshirt was left at our house by some unknown guest and I have never been able to figure out exactly to whom it might belong despite grilling every visitor for months.  Anyway, it looked very tiny on Stephen.  The man has longer arms than anyone other than Michael Phelps.  "So, why aren't you wearing your wee sweatshirt this morning, Mr. Man?"  He is extremely tiny, as well as being very big.

He did some hilarious hip-hop dancing this afternoon in response to music on a commercial and I remembered how much I so love him - the man can dance and he can make me laugh, so joyful the dancing!  Our boy Toe can do some dancing too and sometimes I will catch him just grooving away by himself in the hall or out in the yard.  He stops when I see him, but that boy is a natural.  It's a gift.  It makes my heart soar, watching.  I wish he would do it all the time.

Toe and I went to the track to run yesterday and he just bounced along, so happy and free, light as air.  I plodded like Frankenstein in pursuit of him but at the end this monster almost caught the sprite.  Slow and steady wins the race, just about.  He will never let me actually win, even if it kills him.  He will draaaag himself across that finish line if it means his mother won't win.  I had to work at least 25 years to learn how to get myself across that line but it only took him a few to want it.  Lucky boy.

Ty and I hiked up a mountain today to this tower:

The view:

I thought that the exercise this weekend would do me good but I guess all the wine and food takes its toll despite my longing and wishing.  The song remains the same.  Months of sloth and gluttony cannot be erased by a couple of days of activity.  Whine.  Or should I say, Wine.

Speaking of whine, Stephen and Toe made a very funny list of rules while Ty and I were hiking:

Rules At My Beach:

1.    No Swimming. 
2.    No getting wet.
3.    No BBQs.
4.    No digging in the sand.
5.    No sunbathing.
6.    No having fun.
7.    No breathing.
8.    No laughing.
9.    No eating.
10.   No reading.
11.   No fishing.

Things You Can Do at My Beach:

1. Cry.
2. Complain.
3. Whine.
4. Ask to go Home a Lot.
5. Throw Rocks.
6. Stare at the Water.
7. Buy my Very Expensive Food.  (But Don't Eat It!  See Rule # 9 Above).

Last weekend of the summer.  Poignant, and yet welcome.  Here comes a new season. 

Picture-Heavy Post

The children fought bitterly today, master thespian crying, working themselves into real hysteria.  Toys were broken, children were running through the woods crying, there was pretending to be eaten by coyotes, so realistic that I actually was concerned for a few minutes, then more breaking, more crying, more hysteria.  I looked at my flowers. 

I used to have a black thumb, killing any plant life within miles.  But lately I'm interested in making plants live and it's incredibly satisfying.  My flowers, they bring me joy.

Gladdies.

Forgetta me not.  Toby says if you touch them they fling seeds.  He doesn't know if that's true.  I like this idea.  I hope they do because I am loving forget-me-nots, deeply.  Our friend sent a packet in her baby announcement and when it got lemonade spilled on it, she sent me more. 

Hydrangea. 

I forget what this is but the blooms are plentiful and the colors are bright.  $4.99 at Shop Rite.

Crazy amounts of Dahlias.   Don't ask me how I ended up with all white ones this year.  I got a couple of reds and one spiky purply guy but three thousand of these snowballs.

Good God!  I've been inspired to paint!  These are from the last three days, because when it rains, it pours.

 

The forehead looks very yellow here, not so much in real life.  My Tysie, such a sweet baby.

I'm working on another of the boys swimming at the falls but it's a lot bigger and more difficult and detailed so I may end up just abandoning it.  I can't resist beautiful water.

When I got laid off, I figured I'd paint all the time but it didn't happen.  The last time I painted was when the peach hit me and painted itself in one night last winter:

This peach is 30 x 36 inches and it satisfies me.

Everyone is reading over my shoulder.  Stephen just burped loudly and said, "I'm sorry, that was disgusting."  Toby is asking me to take whatever he said off my blog and Tyson is holding his hand over my eyes and laughing like a madman.  His pox are looking much, much better.

Everyone in this house needs more sleep.  It's true and if you don't takygehhu your hands off my eyes I will tell all the 5girls that you l25ove them dee54pl54y and mad24ly.  So I sugg6e5st that you tak684e your hands off my eyes.

A Pox Upon Us

This poor child.  Despite having the vaccine as a baby and a booster shot in June, he has chicken pox.  He is covered in itchiness:

We are hoping he will be pox-free for the first day of school next week.  It's tempting to blame the whole thing on his appendix but it's gone now so that's probably not apt.  Ah, heck, I'll blame it anyway, the little rotter.  Thanks a lot, appendix.  You stink.  Keep your pox-y hands (hands?  hm) off my kid.  Don't look at me that way.  I know your evil ways.

At least it's not bedbugs.  I went online and looked at pictures of bedbugs before we knew what he had and just about lost my mind.  I didn't even mention the possibility to my husband who thinks every poppy seed is a flea.

The Lulu Kwakiutl picture of the day:

She's wrecking all the screens.  Oh wait, here's another from three weeks ago:

I know, I'm appalling.  At least meno understands. 

A Few Things

Oh summer, how I shall miss you.

 

Remember that study about how the smell of apple pie and the smell of lavender make men horny?  In that case, why would I buy such a thing as this dish soap?  Like the man needs any more encouragement.

  

As you may recall, we were originally going to have a "Survivor" birthday party for Ty, so I bought these disgusting lollipops and some chocolate covered bugs as party favors:

I gave them out after the party because what the heck am I going to do with them now, huh?  The next day, I went to another birthday party and saw Ty's friend sucking on a worm lolly.  A few days later at our house, he asked for another one.  He did not eat the worm, however.  His brother asked for more choco-bugs.  He said, "They're good!  You don't even taste the bugs!"  But don't ask them to eat salad or anything.  Because that's just gross.

The kitten was originally named Lucy at the shelter, so we kept her name because it seemed wrong to change it.  My sister is named Lucy, so that was a little weird, but oh well.  But now the name has evolved.  There is an interior designer named Lulu de Kwiatkowski - for whatever reason I always though of her as Lulu Kwakiutl (indigenous people of Northern Vancouver or something or other - dunno why they got in there).  Anyway, the kitten is now Lulu Kwakiutl.  She's quacky!  She's ootle!  She continues to harass the other cats.

 

We have touch lights hanging by our bed and Lulu likes to touch them in the middle of the night.  There are three levels of brightness and she will often touch the light three times with her paw to get it as bright as possible.  My husband says his asthma is bothering him again.  He's not happy.  It's a good thing I got that lavender dish soap to keep him wanting me.

Title? You Want A Freaking Title? I'll Give You A Title!

I have a step-aunt with whom I used to watch the Olympics on the Upper East Side when I was young and lonely and single in NYC.  We ate Olympic pizza.  Neens, Stephen and I both think of you every time we watch.  Come over!

The opening ceremony of the Olympics was truly astonishing.  If you didn't see it, you missed an amazing thing.  What I loved was that it was really about people joining together to make something beautiful (China's politics aside).  If it was taking place in the U.S., it would be all about celebrity and flash.  Don't get me wrong, I love living here, I don't want to live anywhere else, but sometimes it's embarrassing, you know?  Don't get me started.  That ceremony was a pleasure to watch.  And it wasn't at all about anything like Janet's boob.

What is up with those crazy shiny red American women gymnast uniforms? I keep thinking of Liz Phair (one of her lyrics included the phrase "And your lips are sweet and slippery like a cherub's bare, wet ass" which we all  - okay, me - misheard as "sheriff's bright red ass").  Those poor athletes, stuck in tight, shiny fabric right up their behinds.  Don't even get me started on the synchronized divers, constantly being filmed while they shower off the chlorine in their ass-eating suits.

It was really fun to watch the American relay team sock it to the Frenchies (I don't have a single thing against the French, but that Alain guy was pretty obnoxious, "crush the Americans", kiss my shiny bright red ass, mere-fuckeur)  Crush yourself, Mr. Louseur.  Oooh, je suis mean.  I felt bad for them when it was over, that endless coverage of Michael Phelps with his mouth open in the joy of victory.  I love Michael Phelps and wish him those 8 medals but want to tell him to stop having his picture taken with his mouth open.  This is probably because my mother constantly told me I looked gormless.  Sorry.

Mark Spitz still looks pretty good, doesn't he?  I thought it was kind of ridiculous that they said he was complaining about not having his way paid to Beijing.  If they pay for you, don't they have some sort of obligation to pay for everyone who might have a major record trumped?  Besides which, aren't you rich?  I'm sure someone has already stepped up to pay his hotel bill, at any rate.  He was such a hero, all through my youth, with Nadia.  And that ice skater with the haircut.  Oh, I'm tired.

We had a sleepover with 9 boys for Ty's birthday, finally.  His appendix is long gone, neatly and easily (and thank goodness, as it had re-sealed itself and was ready to re-rupture).  I toyed with the idea of pretending I had it and presenting it as a prize but finally didn't.  We invited the parents for dinner beforehand and most of them didn't leave until after midnight.  It was fun, surprisingly fun, lots of laughs.  The boys didn't sleep a single wink and were exhaustimicated, sleeping most of the next day away.  We felt bad because we were supposed to be at a 2-year-old's birthday at noon but I dragged my sorry ass out of bed to get there ALONE at 3:00 and drink some of the hair of that dog that bit me so hard that it made it bright red...Tell me to stop.  I'm stopping now.

By the way, if you have any 11-year-old boys, the whole meaning of life for them is to never sleep and prove that they are more manly than other 11-year-old boys by watching vampire shows at 5:00 in the morning and not being afraid even though they are deathly afraid and will never be able to sleep without the lights blazing for all the nights following their bluster.  Not to mention their 8-year-old brothers who want to sleep in their parents' bed for all time.  One of the boys apparently called his parents at 5:30 to complain that the channel was not being changed despite his protests.  Whoopsie.  I also let the boys watch "Monty Python's Holy Grail" at 2:00 a.m. which probably makes me some kind of cretin.  Several of them had seen it before and the parent of two of them lent the disc to us.  But I figure if the parents watched me drink all those mojitos and then all that champagne, hey...you knew what you were getting into.  Irresponsible cretin?  Hi!  That's me!

One of the kids showed up with a bag full-o-guns (seriously, like 5 rifles in a bag), which was kind of agonizing, considering that another of the kids is not allowed to play with guns in any form.  Eee. They were cap guns, but very realistic.  Even I recoiled a bit.  Guns=Killing=Bad because nobody around here needs to kill a single thing to eat.  But my kids play with squirt guns and pop guns (those air-loaded deals with the cork-like thing on the end) and Nerf guns, I have no problem with that.  It's the real-looking things that give me the willies.  Me no like.  But I do like that kid and know that he would never hurt a thing, he is a sweet, gentle boy, one of my favorites.   His parents had us laughing all night long, telling us stories about nuns (her) and calling everyone by the wrong name (him).  Fun.

My son's friends are lovable to the extreme.  Who makes the most hilarious movies with our now-broken digital camera?  They shot a lot of scenes in the mud in the woods, then hilarious fight scenes in the upstairs bathroom, accompanied by frantic harmonica played by a boy wearing a civil war cap in the hall.  I love that my kids has friends like I had friends (Oh, if we only had digital cameras. How I wish we could have made movies so easily so I could watch them now!).  I love to watch the creative frenzy, the joy in being silly.  I love that Tiny Toe fits right in, that they are all so kind to him, these smart, funny boys.  Yeah, we're totally doomed in the teen years.  But they ain't here yet.  We are loving every minute of it.

I spent the entire morning reading a fabulous book my sister lent me, "The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox" by Maggie O'Farrell.  It was delicious, waking up early with the kitten and reading in bed with coffee.  I took the kids to the park and they chased each other around a bit while I read the newspaper and then the clouds opened and it POURED.  There were a bunch of kids from a camp there.  I was seated under the trees so barely felt the rain and the boys came and joined me and we watched the crazy camp boys dance in the rain.  Lovely.  Toe wanted to stay, Ty wanted to leave, it was chilly, we left, when we got home it hadn't rained at all on the driveway but the backyard was soaked.

I am a bit unhinged right now.  Staying up late, drinking too much, my husband unhappy with being the only one in the house who has to adhere to a schedule, worrying about money and work and school starting.  Hey, I could be an Olympic athlete with an injury, right?  I could have spent my entire life working for something that culminated in a week when I was deathly ill, right?  So it's better that I have never, ever been able to get my act together.  That's what I'm telling myself tonight.

Happy F-ing Anniversary

Stephen and I celebrated our 14th anniversary earlier this week.  We both forgot, as usual, and then were too tired to drink the champagne he brought home.  Then we had a fight.

He's mad because I'm sleeping with someone else.

What can I say?  I find her irresistible.  She gets lonely without me and Stephen can't have any noise or light or else he can't sleep.  And for whatever reason, he doesn't like it when his feet get attacked in the middle of the night.  He's so SENSITIVE.  He should totally, like, get over it.

We made up.  There were compromises.   He still doesn't love her as much as I do but the boys more than make up for it.  We're smitten.