Odd offering

For most or all of the past four days, Oliver has come into our bed between 3 and 5am. I'm not sure exactly how many times this has happened because I feel like I'm living in one of those swirly, Austin Powers-type swirls; the days are being sucked into a psychedelic vortex in which time ceases to be any sort of reasonable, helpful marker.

He claims nightmares, ideas, a desire to sleep "in yah bed, Mom"... before propping head on my stomach and feet into Tom. One morning, after I pleaded with him to return to his bed and let us sleep, he left but later brought me an offering. It was rather like the human equivalent of a fresh kill your cat drops on your doorstep: tiny bags (popped air-bag insulation) filled with cat and dog food and taped shut.

"In case we suddenly run out of pet food, Mom. Then we'll have these." I think I said "Thank you and nice thought"?

Needless to say, we're all bushed.

Perhaps that is why I way over-salted what should and could have been a scrumptious dinner last night. What a sad waste. My own canned tomatoes, fresh squid, a thoughtfully constructed sauce underpinned with anchovies, saffron, shallots and garlic. Boo!!

An irreparable bummer, but at least the baguette we were to have dipped in the sauce made for a great sandwich today.

Look at this guy happily a'snuggle with moi. Love!

Gawl dang

Some afternoons with kids are just sub-par. Things started off so well today, what with a surprise chocolate donut with sprinkles as an after-school treat, a trip to the pet store to purchase two replacement fish (no additional deaths; just the original two), and a(nother) game of Forbidden Island.

Oliver, however, has been crying on and off since the pet store over a kitten named Garth that he desperately wants. One of the checkout women actually put her hand over her heart as she watched me attempt to console his tearful demonstration. Look, I love kittens and think there's little cuter than a darling face just begging you to take him home. Had I not been convinced T would consider moving out, I'd probably have adopted tiny Garth. But we have a burgeoning menagerie over here, so I kept telling Ol that "right now we just need to get these wonderful new fish home before their air runs out."

Of course the air situation wasn't that dire, but really, I had to get that boy out of that store!

We returned home, played said game of Forbidden Island and then Oliver remembered Garth, the "kitten with the blue necklace (collar)," and lost his business anew.

Jack, meanwhile, was all smiles and thrill until some invisible lever switched into the Hyde mode, and he went bonkers about Tom's request to "clean up the seaweed you spit into your own bath tub [another incident that left Oliver in mournful, aggrieved tears] and all over the floor." Jack actually said this request was unfair.

All you can do is laugh in a situation like this because that response and attempt at a decent argument is beyond asinine.

It was with real happiness, then, that I tottered off to back to school night in another pair of fabulous heels. And now I'm home and feeling newly grateful and incredibly inspired about the truly excellent teachers that guide my children through their school days. Wow.

Allergies, the elderly and stop signs, Forbidden Island

Allergic to what?

Friends, after sixty kinda-pricks today during my first-ever appointment with an allergist, I found that in addition to dust mites and pigweed, I'm somewhat allergic to cockroaches which, for your additional disgust, are grouped in the molds category.

Apparently, lots of people are allergic to cockroaches (order: Blattodea or, alternately, Blattaria; aren't those gross names just perfect? They must derive from the sound a roach makes upon being squished by a freaking-out woman or the person (in my case, my father or T) she's called in frantically to do her bidding) and their nasty, moldy, crunchy, spurty, filthy selves). My allergist blamed my reaction on having grown up in Louisiana; there are that many there, of both the flying and solely locomotive types. Perhaps my geographic heritage also explains my slight reaction to oak trees and sweet gum trees, though those results made me awfully sad and I refuse to acknowledge them.

I mean, what, pray tell (other than a Redwood but they don't speak to me in the same way), is grander and more awe-inspiring than a century-old Live Oak in Louisiana? Very, very little. At least in the tree kingdom. Maybe a baobab, but I digress.

Although I miss much about Louisiana, I do not in any way miss cockroaches. They are a repulsive scourge with no reason for being. Like mosquitoes, but much uglier and creepier.

But anyway, dust mites. Now I've gotta encase all my pillows, mattresses and such, BUT doing so will reduce my exposure to those buggers by 30% (or so I'm told), so maybe that's one less experience with Hitler-chap and man-voice than I currently plod through each year. I'll take it.

The elderly and driving

Y'all, I loved my Nanny more than most folks, and I've always treasured the many, many older people in my life whom I'm lucky to call friends. But I simply must say that north of seventy, most people need to relinquish their driver's licenses. It would be a full time job for me to accurately tell you how many older peeps I see blowing through stop signs every day. Stop signs are NOT suggestions, y'all. They are simple visuals to relay one simple message: STOP.

I have a great-aunt who drove through the front windows of a Cold Stone Creamery; she was certain she should retain her license. I regularly see l'anciennes driving more slowly than Nutmeg strolls, weaving over the land dividers and back with not a care in the world. This is dangerous, friends, dangerous.

You don't, at a certain age, say Happy Birthday to yourself by deciding you no longer need to follow the rules of the road. I'm just saying.

Great game for 7+-year-olds and dinner

The boys ate nearly a pound of ground beef in hamburger form for dinner. Plus broccoli, peaches, milk, buns... It's really UNbelievable how much males can consume. That's all good though; it just takes me aback sometimes.

More interestingly, before dinner, Jack and I played a new game: Forbidden Island. All players are on the same team, and the goal is to acquire the four treasures and helicopter off the island before it sinks in flooding waters. I admit to being on the edge of my seat at one point while Jack drew "flood" cards. Would we survive? Would we have time to procure the Chalice of the Earth before flying to safety?

I highly recommend it. Made me Gamewright, a Mensa select ... T got home and we grilled pizza and cooked yet another plum tart.

Hubs has just wooed me with an episode of House of Cards. I'm off!