What I Did on My Christmas Vacation

 Tuesday, December 29, 2009

How is it that it takes months to add and then cross off gifts from lists, weeks to prepare, and days to pack, and then it's over in the blink of an eye? There and back again in two minutes, it seems.

We had a fabulous trip home, managing to shoehorn in as many family and friends into four days as we possibly could while still remembering everyone's name. We ate ridiculous amounts of food (which is entirely not our fault since all of our various hosts fed us insanely well). And as usual, we were showered with gifts and love and snuggles and warmth - thanks to all who loved us up so thoroughly!

Our gift to the kids before we left - a candy-making factory. Who knew sour gummy candies were made entirely of gelatin and citric acid?
Watermelon-flavoured nastiness in molds of various shapes.

The standard plethora of gifts.

Meeting a new friend for the first time.
Taking credit for a group effort (while the other candy architects take some time off from a punching game gone awry)

Reading (reading!!) his new chapter book to great grandpa.

Relaxing with (what else?) Pokemon colouring pages.

Playing a new dance game with the cousins (warning: not for adults - my elbows are *still* feeling my overzealous Mashed Potato)

And...the unpacking back at home. The Husband wins a gold star for getting all of this and more into the trunk of the Jetta. And I get a gold star for sitting for eight hours wedged into the front seat with the stuff that didn't fit in the trunk.

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No Presents Until You Say Your Verse for Grandma!

 Monday, December 21, 2009

Do you remember that? How every Christmas you were hauled up in front of all your aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents and instructed to "say your verse...come on PM, you did *so* good in the program, just say your verse...Grandma will be so happy...."

And you stood there, sweaty and panicked, like some Christmas reindeer caught in the headlights of the anticipatory stares of people whom you loved and who you knew loved you in theory but (let's face it) you only saw twice a year?

And your mind went completely blank, the adrenaline started pumping, and all you could remember were stray, disconnected bits of the two lines you so triumphantly recited the night before in church?

(Not that this has ever happened to me.)

Well, I'm not gonna do that to my kids, no way, no how. Not so much to spare them, but because I am lazy. Making them practice their Christmas program parts any longer than I absolutely have to (read: juuuuust enough the night before to get the words into short-term memory and make it through the next morning's pageant) is not on my to-do list this week.

Fortunately, the miracle of technology comes to the rescue, and I can nonetheless share their theatrical prowess with you.

First, from the Christmas pageant at church yesterday. I was director again this year, and despite my most stricken pleas of "isn't there anyone else who wants to be Joseph?", I had to cast The Boy as Jesus's earthly father. The Girl, disgruntled that she couldn't be Mary, had to content herself with a dual role of Innkeeper/Jewish Leader.

Behold, the glory (you'll probably need to turn the computer volume waaaaay up):

(Yep, that's my arm making a cameo directorial appearance.)

The Girl didn't get a lot of facetime in our recordings of the grand event, mostly because The Husband didn't want to be one of those parents hogging the aisle and blocking the view for every other parent. So I captured The Girl's later program-worthy effort (might want to bring that volume down a bit):

This represents the first attempt she and I have made to teach her how to play piano. Our results were lovely as you can see, but it definitely confirmed that we need to get her a real teacher.

Partly because I have no idea how to go about doing it. Mostly because if I try, there will be tears of frustration and yelling and slamming of keys, and so forth.

And who knows what her reaction will be?

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Credit Problems? Word to the Rescue!

 Friday, December 18, 2009

So I was just looking at the templates in MS Word 2007 under the "personal" category.

(Yes. This is what I do for fun on Friday nights.)

A quick word on templates: they rock. Not your namby-pamby "here is a cover letter, fill in the date and relevant experience a la Career Mad Libs" kind - I'm talking about styles and formatting and using the template organizer and undergirding your document with a good set of bones here.

(Also: quick tip - put the Developer tab in your ribbon and you've got -hey presto - easy access to your document's current template.)

Anyhoodle, I was slumming it in the namby-pamby section, and I discovered the most fascinating collection of templates. These templates are different from the styles/formatting ones I use - these ones are sample documents, ones that writer's-blocked users or those a little shaky when it comes to wordcraft can use as guides. They're like connect-the-dots letters - there's a bit of a stretch where you're on your own, but there's always a reassuring solid checkpoint within sight.

What's interesting is the topics. Here, ostensibly, are the most common letters that might be written. According to MS designers, the letters in this list represent the most frequent reasons that might prompt someone to click "New Document."

Here is that list, in the order presented:

-Letter to Santa (awww! Nothing says "I deserve a Nintendo DS" like not bothering to write it by hand)

- Complaint about service (presumably so you can whine about Santa's less than enthusiastic response to your letter)

- Request to cancel service (because you never want Christmas to come again)

- Address change notification (just in case that sneaky Santa tries to come down your last known chimney anyway)

- Dispute of charge to credit card company (Ah, yes - that particular marriage of belligerent denial and overuse of credit - must be the US version of the software)

- Notice that payment will be late (Guess that dispute didn't work out so well)

- Power of attorney letter for child care (Dangit - I've always written my own. Who knew you needed hand-holding on this one?)

- Dispute of charges after credit card lost (More disputing!)

- Confirmation that credit card was lost (Guess the disputees disputed right back)

- Request for geneaology records from church (This one threw me. Really? It's that common?)

- Request for geneaology records from funeral home (Firstly - another one? Secondly - they keep those?)

- Thank you letter for personal gift (Because again, nothing says "personal" like opening up Office 2007 and letting someone else do the writing for you)

- Apology for late mailing of payment (Don't think that just cuz you're sorry they won't charge you a bazillion dollars in late fees)

- Request to cancel credit account (See? All that disputing and apologizing and losing - much easier if you just don't have a credit card at all)

- Authorization to perform work (You need that? I thought you just said you could and they believed you...)

- Payment proposal plan to creditor (Looks like you should've cancelled that card a bit earlier...)

- Request for uncertified copy of birth or death certificate (How exactly does an uncertified copy help you? So that you can cross out "Hawaii" and scrawl "Kenya" in crayon?)

- Request of genealogy records from library (Clearly the birthers leave no stone unturned)

- Request that credit card company contact credit bureaus (Look, don't believe me? You call them then)

- Explanation for not contributing (Perfect for those Sunday mornings when the offering plate comes by and all you have is lint in your pockets!)

- Vehicle insurance complaint (Hey, down here if you *have* insurance, that's already pretty awesome)

- Dispute of duplicate credit card charge (And America wonders why everyone thinks they are so litigious?)

- Request for itemized charges on service work (They're suspicious, too)

- Vehicle repair complaint (Cars and complaining...as American as apple pie)

- Vehicle warranty complaint (see above)

And there you have it folks - a window into the letter-writing needs of the American public as envisioned by Micro.soft Corporation.

Sigh.

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Bearing Gifts We Traverse Afar

 Thursday, December 17, 2009

Three little figures trudged through the snow, hunched protectively over their precious gifts. Each thought, I wonder how they'll like it? Will it be enough? Will they laugh?

But onward they walked, bent against the snow, peering anxiously at the bejeweled treasures they carried, concerned that no harm befall them.

Wisemen from the East? Gold, frankincense, and myrhh?

Nope.

It was the Peitasch children, sent with admonition for due care by their mother, on their annual trek to deliver the School Teacher Christmas Gift.

Which in our house, meant only one thing:

Strawberries.

For the uninitiated, "strawberries" (you kind of need air quotes. They're about as far from the real thing as you can get) are a quasi-candy. We made them every single year when I was growing up, and they - like pretty much everything else that was fancy and came out of our kitchen - were crafted solely for the purpose of giving away.

We must have been legendary at Southwood School. Probably every teacher received a paper plate with a dozen "strawberries" nestled carefully in individual cups beneath a protective saran wrap cover at some point in his or her career there.

This year, the legend continues. Well, sort of. I decided that *I* was going to make "strawberries." I've made them since becoming a GrownUp, but never with my kids.

Ohhhhh, did I talked them up! I told them we were going to have So! Much! Fun! Making! Strawberries! I assured them they would each have a special job in the process, and how the littlest child always got to do the rolling and how the next biggest child did the stems and eventually worked up to that magical job - the forming.

They were beyond excited. They came in the door after school yelling, "LET'S MAKE STRAWBERRIES!!"

And so we did. First, preparations. There is only one CD that can be played while making strawberries: Boney M Christmas.

Then, with the reggae Mary's Boy Child grooving in the background, you can soak toothpicks in green food colouring (this works best the day before):



Then you amass the ingredients (Note: dessicated coconut works best, but I couldn't find it. None of my coworkers knew what it was - is it a Canadaland thing? Rocky, my favourite American baker - what say you?):

Then you mix up the perfect ratios of each:


Next comes rolling...a delicate job, as you have to take *just* the right amount of "dough" and apply the correct amount of pressure to mold yet not mush:
Next, more jello - used both in the dough and as a shiny, glittery outer crust:

The last thing is to spear a quarter of a candied green cherry with the toothpicks from above and insert this a la leaf. I have no pictures of this part. By the time I'd gotten the kids to pose for these first ones, The Boy was pretty much done. The Girl kept going a bit, while I gave her helpful tips until she looked at me and said kindly, "you know, Mom, I think I'm going to let you do this so that you can do it exactly the way you want it." So I did:
And so the memory lives on. If you're lucky enough to catch me on my trip Home for Christmas next week, you just might get one of these tasty little treats. If not, well, you might not be missing much - The Husband says they are an acquired taste and it took him ten whole years to get used to them.

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How Lovely Are Your Branches

 Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Mine has been a longstanding love affair with the Tannenbaum.

(Zie Tannenbaum? Zer Tannenbaum? Whatever - it's one of the three gendered articles.)

When I was a kid, one of the highlights of the Christmas season was bundling up, piling into our car, and driving for about eight hours to the tree farm.

(It was really 45 minutes. Which is interminable when one is under 10 years old.)

We would go up and down the rows, searching for the perfect tree. I remember my brothers chasing each other through the trees and me pretending I was in some otherworldly Narnia-ish fantasy forest.

That and having to go to the bathroom. I somehow always had to go, but of course we couldn't head back to XmasTreeHQ without a prize, so I danced and shifted my weight through the duration of the search.

Once we'd found The One, Dad cut it down and we returned triumphant to the parking lot, where he tied it to the roof while the rest of us had hot chocolate and processed cheese slices. Which we called "chocolate cheese." Because it has a wrapper, you see.

Home we went, and we vibrated impatiently while waiting for it to thaw and then for Mom to put on the lights. Because after that came one of the bestest parts of the season - decorating.

We had Winnie the Pooh. We had Snow White and the Seven (Worse for the Wear of the Years) Dwarves. We had styrofoam balls with sequins pinned on; wreaths made of lace, beads, and hardened hot glue drips; and increasingly mangy tinsel.

It was awesome.

But the awesomest was what happened after we were finished. The twinkly lights were on, everyone else was occupied, and I would sneak into the corner between the tree and the wall into my own private fairy world where I could be unnoticed and unremarked upon and indulge my greatest passion.

Organizing.

I would carefully study the placement of all the ornaments near me, judge their spatial relationships to one another, and oh so quietly make adjustments until every one was in perfect, organized harmony.

(Yes. I could be persuaded to agree with your widened eyes and muffled snickers that this may indeed have been a manifestation of a mild case of OCD. It wasn't restricted to ornaments - I used to spend hours while my mom did the grocery shopping, standing at the end of the aisles and rearranging the candy displays so that all the chocolate bars were facing the same way and bringing some semblance of order to the chaos caused when someone thoughtlessly threw a Kit Kat bar into the Coffee Crisp box.)

The Tree was such a huge part of getting ready for me that I've always tried to make a big deal of it with my kids. They're not always happy about it - I remember two years ago lugging a tree along the street, kids wailing that they were missing all the good shows, and gritting my teeth and telling them to have fun, dangit!

But usually they get into it, as they did this year:

Yes. A camouflage Santa hat. I know.

Getting to the top branches.

Apparently cozying up beneath the tree runs in the family.

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Travesty!

 Saturday, December 5, 2009

So I was grocery shopping this morning.

(Which was a nonstandard schedule as I usually go on Thursday nights. Which is why I didn't realize that the average age of Cub shopper is inversely proportional to how early in the day it is, which value is then also inversely proportional to the speed at which one can travel down the aisles.

Which is to say that early Saturday morning = elderly shoppers in motorized aisle-wide shopping vehicles + free coffee and cookies = an excellent exercise in patience.

Which is why I see so many other harried, young working parents on Thursday nights, because we'd rather lose precious sleep than meet the same blue hair and sweater set plodding at a merciless snail's pace, sipping coffee and consulting each and every item in the sale flyer whilst travelling down the centre of Every. Single. Aisle.

But I digress.)

So I was grocery shopping this morning, and this is what I found:


In yet another breathtaking example of culinary imperialism, the United States (here represented by one Pepperidge Farm - if by "Pepperidge" you mean faceless conglomerate and "Farm" you mean stainless steel mass manufacturing) has taken a country's prized epicurean export, removed its soul, retained a nod to its exotic origin (Australia's Favorite Cookie!), and released it to the masses.

(See also: ketchup chips. They carry them here now - or something that looks like them - but the taste is criminally inferior. Also they are *always* crushed for some reason.)

Harumph.

This is where I discovered Tim Tams:


It was glorious. Every convenience store had shelves piled high with them. There were about 18 different varieties - and we tried every single one as we made our way up the west coast of Australia. They bound the country together - trendy, artsy Melbourne; historical, harboured Sydney; and sun-soaked, sea-breezy Cairns - all linked by that almighty melty-messy chocolate coating.

And then imagine our delighted shock to find them in none other than The Real Canadian Superstore. Not some sort of Canadian knock-off version - the *real* deal these were. Made by Arnott's, complete with lengthy unpronouncable ingredient list.

It being Superstore, actually having them on the shelves was always a gamble. More often than not, there was a bare space on the shelf and a "Sorry, We're Out" sign. So when they were there, we had to load up and stock the cupboard.

And each time we raided that stash, we were reminded of our adventure halfway around the world. They tasted of wineries and Great Ocean Road and Ned Kelly.

Not a stupid [airquotes] farm.

Harumph, I say.

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Ack!

 Thursday, December 3, 2009

Please fill in the blank below:

Peitricia Mae, this is the __________________ thing you have ever done.

a) Most out of character
b) Coolest
c) Craziest
d) All of the above



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Remember When?

 Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Astonishing...

...how deliciously wonderful they were...

...and how much I've forgotten....


(That laugh gets me *every* time - it was such a chortle.)

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Gobble, Gobble

 Saturday, November 28, 2009

I've always secretly admired the Americans for their version of Thanksgiving. It makes so much more sense to have it in November. Not so much in terms of celebrating harvest, as that's loooong done, particularly in Canada, but as a sort of gateway into that other Holiday Season.

Thanksgiving in November helps to keep consumerism at bay (a bit) and forces people to think about something else before they lay themselves prostrate at the altar of Must Buy the Perfect Present This Year. It's all about family and giving thanks and counting blessings.

Oh, and days off, of course. I love how it's such a big holiday that Americans schedule a day off to recover.

We decided to use our days off locally this year (yes - we are Holiday Locavores) and stayed home instead of making our usual trip up to Canada. Much as we love weekends home, they tend to be very busy and we get back feeling more tired than when we left. Plus, given that we always go home for Christmas as well, we get puzzled looks and raised eyebrows in December and people say, "weren't you just here?"

I'll admit to being quite homesick on Wednesday. The week prior was full of conversations like this:

Kind Coworker: So, PM, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?

PM: Oh, nothing.

KC: [quizzical look]

PM: Well, see, I'm Canadian. We celebrate Thanksgiving in October, so I've been there, done that.

KC: Oh, I see. So you went up to see your family?

PM: Um, no. It's not that big of a deal. But my in-laws were out and she made me pie, so that was pretty fantastic.

KC: Mmmm, did you get turkey, too?

PM: Um, no. We don't eat meat at our house.

KC: Oh. So basically it's just a four-day weekend for you and your family.

PM: Yup!

KC: [wistfully] That sounds kind of nice.

And as nice as it has been to stay in pajamas, drink coffee, and go for numerous walks around the lake, I was still sad when everyone else was packing up and getting ready to go Home and make turkey and complain about overeating...everyone except me.

So I was sad for awhile. But Old Dutch and onion chip dip and three books and a few pots of coffee have done wonders to help me cope.

The kids are loving it, too. Their eyes are about ready to bug out of their heads from all the TV they've been watching. But we have been sending them outside. Because, check out The Boy's latest obsession:


NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!
(Also: of course the Canadian kid's wearing shorts in November)
Yep, he's discovered football. Actually so has The Husband. He used to watch two games a year (hola Super Bowl and Grey Cup!) but now he's averaging at least two games a week. The Boy gets into it too - "Dad, which team are we voting for?" - and The Husband went out to get a ball to throw around with him. Which led to this:
The Husband: [whispering] PM!!
PM: [whispering back] What?
TH: OhmygoodnessPM - I was playing football with The Boy...he's totally got an arm for it.
PM: [unimpressed] Oh, really?
TH: Yeah, the kid's throwing spirals - and it's his first time! And it's totally not just me - a neighbour walked by and said, "hey, that kid's pretty good!"
PM: [picturing after-school practices and weekend tournaments and trying to get uniforms clean and having to learn what an off-side kick is] Oh.
TH: You know, the lowest salary in the NFL is, like, three million dollars. Our kids totally going pro.
PM: Sigh.
When in Rome...

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If You Build It, They Will Come

 Friday, November 20, 2009

We've liked our church pretty much from the start. (Wow - just finding that link made me realize that it's been almost two years since we've been there.) Small, welcoming, and all kinds of soul-foody, it quickly became a place where we felt at home.

In a land where "Christian" is all too often synonymous with "Crazy," our church has been a refuge of quiet, peaceful grace. There's only about 70 people, but its size fosters cross-generational relationships and I often see the seniors chatting up my kids. They love Jesus, they love one another, and they love their neighbours - all traits that somehow seem lacking in a lot of "Christians" these days.

But the one less-than-perfect aspect to our church has been the music.

[Cue angry votes of non-confidence and storming out to the beckoning arms of the local version of Hillsong - nothing gets Mennonites more riled up than the "M" word.]

Our church has a very traditional worship style. If it ain't got four parts, it ain't on the roster.

Now me? I was learning how to sing alto when I still believed in the Tooth Fairy, and some of my best church memories are standing by my mom listening to her sing those incredibly moving old hymns. But The Husband and my munchkins don't heart all of those old chestnuts. Their hearts don't thrill to Luther or Wesley, and "606" merits simply an eye-roll (from The Husband) and whining about length (from The Littles).

So it was with much interest this past summer that we noted the attendance of a lone guitar player. Someone who *gasp* knew choruses and *double gasp* was willing to play in church.

The Husband took swift action. A guitar is half of a praise group, he declared, and you sing alto PM, so all we need is a bass guitar.

And off he went, purchasing and learning how to play said instrument with astonishing swiftness (guess the threat of one more hymn, of which we always sing the oft-skipped verse 3 - we're an equal opportunity group, was good incentive). We found a couple of sopranos and an unbelievably talented violin player to add to the mix and, hey presto, we're Days of Elijah-ing it with the best of 'em.

These halcyon days of song are numbered, though; our guitarist is scheduled to depart spring 2011 when her husband's study program ends. And so, I decided to follow in my fellow band member's footsteps, and declared I would start learning the guitar so I could take over by the time she goes.

(Because, while a guitar is half a praise band, it can function as the entire praise band in a pinch. Solo bass guitar? Does not a praise band make.)

But somewhere betwixt my faltering attempts at a G chord and a C chord, we bought a piano. And, because The Husband wanted to go over one of our songs, I sat down and tried to figure it out using only the chord chart. Just so I could help him out.

That was three weeks and about a bazillion hours hunched over the keys ago.

Why didn't anyone tell me that playing with chords was DEAD easy? That you don't have to know any of the actual notes and you just put your hands sorta kinda where they need to go, remember a few sharps, pound away with a semblance of rhythm, and suddenly you're rockin'?!

I play by ear the way I cook: everything is kind of suggested and I don't really measure, and if I'm unsure, I just add a little more spice. I'm not awesome, but I get the job done.

And suddenly I do have a job. Holy smokes - I'm playing along on Sunday! Only one song, to be sure, and it might get axed at the last minute if we can't get it together, but in theory, I will be playing. In public. At church.

I'm totally nervous.

But also excited. It's super fun, and where better to try out a new recipe of musicianship than at church where everyone loves you and says nice things even though in their head they're thinking, "wow, better keep practicing PM."

The funny thing is that neither The Husband nor I would ever have attempted this at our old church. Our fantabulous, much-missed FG church was chock full of musicians - far better than he or I could dream of being.

And yet, with no one else coming forward, with no possibility of singing a Steve Bell song again save doing it ourselves, we did.

So we shall see what we shall see. It is possible I will be laughed off the piano bench right back to my microphone and told to stick to alto. But you never know. Maybe I'll end up the other half of that praise band, which means we will have three halves which means we are awesome.

Or maybe The Husband will abandon the bass guitar for his latest instrumental pursuit: the ukulele. That's right folks - it's all Tiny Tim at our house when we're not praising it up.

(He's getting good, but "good" is relative with that instrument. It is a happy instrument for the most part. Except in the mornings. When used as an alarm clock, for two children who refuse to get up, and who have now been traumatized by The Husband standing in the hallway hammering away on A flat. Then it's not so happy.)

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Falling Victim to the Chaos of Modern Life? Or Early Onset Alzheimer's?

 Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Sunday:

Exhibit A [in car on way to church]

"Shoot, I forgot to bring that book I promised. I'll just drop you off and quickly go home to pick it up."

[later] "What took you so long?"

"Well...there was traffic...so I tried a different way. And I totally got to see parts of the Twin Cities I've never seen before!"

Exhibit B [in kitchen, after church]

"Hi, um, Johnny's mom? I'm The Boy's mom and he got an invitation to your son's birthday party two weeks ago and we were very excited about it but I set it aside to RSVP and I forgot about it and I just found it and I know the party is this afternoon but is there any way that The Boy could still come and I'd totally understand if you didn't have room for him anymore...oh, that's fantastic, thank you so much...that's so nice of you, I'm so sorry I was so scatterbrained...."

Exhibit C [in Target, purchasing the present for the narrowly-missed party]

"Shoot, I forgot my wallet at home." [to cashier] "Do you take cheques"?

"Yes, we do."

[writes cheque out in 10 items or fewer line, causing sighs and malevolent looks from those behind in the line]

"Here you go."

"Do you have your ID with you? Because we don't take cheques without ID."

[narrowing eyes, thinking this would have been helpful to know a minute ago, a minute in which a cheque would likely not have been written if someone had taken that whole "forgot my wallet" concept and run with it...]

"No. No, I don't have my ID with me."

"Oh, well, I'll just keep this all here for you until you can come back for it."

All this in a space of six hours. The ol' cylinders don't seem to be firing as well as they used to.

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That Bread Was *How* Much?

 Saturday, November 14, 2009

See the loaf of bread The Girl is holding?


It cost $400.

Now, it wasn't so much me coughing up that kind of serious cash for a plain old loaf of grocery store whole wheat. Nope, it was four people, opening up their wallets because people in Kenya are starving, and donating $100 each to "purchase" the bread my daughter proudly carried to the front of the auditorium.

Ah, the MCC relief sale. I love, love, love it. I love hanging around with a bunch of Mennonites and watching people share their gifts. I love seeing people ooo and ahhh over intricately-sewn quilts. I love hanging out with friends from church, teasing them about the white gloves they don to protect the quilts as they help bring them for display at the auction.

And I LOVE watching my kids participate. Last year, The Girl was put into a refugee camp-style tent and was "freed" when donors dropped a cool $400. This year, she was part of a similar group - 12 kids walked up with loaves of bread and money started to pour in. There were 12 loaves of bread in total, and we raised an unbelievable $8,000.

It is mind-boggling watching people (who I'm fairly certain had already spent a fair amount of money on baked goods, crafts, and verenkje) reach even deeper into their pockets and throw money at something intangible.

And it is throat-lumping to see my kids be a part of it. I volunteered with the kids' activities again this year, and I got to help my own littles make bags they can use to take food to share with others. Then later, eye-mistiness set in again when I caught out of the corner of those eyes The Girl looking thoughtfully at the collection basket and news story posted beside it detailing the plight of starving Kenyans and then grabbing a dollar out of her allowance to add to the pile.

The best was observing them after the sale, when a group of us took the bread to a homeless shelter, and they gleefully donned plastic gloves to turn these high-priced loaves into sandwiches for tonight's guests. (Take $8,000 and divide that by 12 loaves with 16 slices each, add some donated meat and cheese, and those sandwiches cost $42 each. That's a heckuva lot more than Jimmy John's!)

Some days I despair that we live in this snobby, ritzy suburb where we are surrounded by people who inhabit the top three percent of income level in this country and that my kids are growing up with no concept of what it is like to be in need. Sure, they neeeeeed a new DS game, and they are TOTALLY put upon when supper has too much melted cheese or we have to have pizza again, but quite honestly my children have never known a day of real need in their lives (nor have I, for that matter).

So days like today, when we can leave that world behind - even just for a few hours - and not only remind ourselves that the home, food, security, independence, opportunities, and sheer wealth that we have are available to increasingly few in this world, but also share in the joy that comes from using that awareness to play the teensiest part in something so overwhelmingly gracious and loving - days like today are my best.


Busy with sewing projects - The Girl is well on her way to being a true Menno girl and bought herself some fabric for her treat today.

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Nobody Bothered to Check With Me...

 Tuesday, November 3, 2009

...whether it was okay to grow up.

And yet here we are:

(For the "wow, they've sure changed in a year!" effect, click here.)

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Infected!

 Sunday, November 1, 2009

Back to the land of the living! Or the land of the blogging, as it were.

It's been a crrrrrazy two weeks with a may-jer cold (me), the flu (The Boy), an unwelcome - or, perhaps, welcome given that all that was waiting for him at home was sickness - extension to a business trip (The Husband), and a virus (our computer). Suffice it to say, it was a week and a half of solo parenting, working from home while tending the ill, and cursing stupid spyware.

(Cue "I told you so's!" from all the people who get after me for not keeping my virus software up to date [Hi Dad!])

Ugh. But we're all back under the same roof now, and we're all healthy (with the exception of the computer, which is in the process of having its hard drive blown away prior to us renewing its technological virginity and starting from scratch).

And none too soon, since yesterday was the oh-so fabulous Hallowe'en.

The Girl is quite unimpressed that we don't partake in the annual decoration fest that marks a Minnesota Hallowe'en. Everyone else gets to decorate, she complains. So, this year we said she could decorate if she pleased, so she scotch-taped her best seasonal drawings on the front porch and hung kleenex ghosts from the trees.
Trick or treating was the usual good times. One of our church members says she considers Hallowe'en to be the most Christian of holidays that the US celebrates, because it's the one night of the year when people get out of the house, meet their neighbours, and answer the door to strangers and connect with them. I'm quite tempted to agree with her.

The kids had awesome costumes this year. A hundred billion thanks to The Husband's mother, who lovingly crafted the best Laura Ingalls Wilder costume (complete with pinafore and bonnet!) I've ever seen.

My contribution to costume-creation was a little bit less skillful. The Boy's teacher said he had to dress up as a book character. Fortuitously, we are reading The Wizard of Oz right now and he chose the scarecrow. Some pants borrowed from a sister, a shirt borrowed from a father and then turned inside out, a Hawaiian skirt dismantled and tied to elastic to make straw anklets and bracelets, and a hat from Value Village combined to make the best scarecrow since Ray Bolger lamented his missing grey matter.

Add a time change (Daylight Saving Time falling back is the Best. Day. of. the. Year!!), and it's been a fab weekend. I kinda don't want it to end.

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Onions Are a Vegetable, Yes?

 Monday, October 19, 2009

Day Two sans The Husband. He left on a business trip yesterday, set to return only far into the wee sma's on Friday night.

So far, so good, if only because I've decide to voluntarily lower my standards before I invariably end up being forced to admit that 1) alive, 2) safe, and 3) fed are about the highest limits to which I can aspire.

(And - excellente - I have thus far attained all THREE of them - felicitations to me!)

Take tonight. Usually dinner includes some form of vegetables, ideally at least two kinds (even though I'm inexplicably the only person in this family who eats salad on purpose) that provide a veneer of choice, even though it's one of those Hobson's choices where I win and the rest of the family loses.

(Except of course for all the vitamins and minerals that their bodies win, win, win!)

But tonight, despite a crisper full of the ol' standbys, I just couldn't face it. Not so much the chopping, but the fight. The invariable whine. The lip curling up when it sees the colourful bounty on the table, the intake of breath in preparation for the full octave "AwwwwwwwwWWWWWW..." that can be terminated prematurely only by a sharp, "YOU know the rule - NO complaining until after we pray!"

So tonight was onion soup. And cheese. And toast.

That's four food groups, right? Water, salt, dairy, and bread. Oh, and onions. Huzzah - five!

The big excitement at the PM house today is a musical one - we had a piano delivered. Been looking for awhile, our heads full of dreams of becoming our own Partridge Family or Von Trapps. The Husband's got the bass guitar down cold (seriously - you should hear him), I can play an entire octave on the acoustic guitar, and now the kids have to fight it out for who gets the piano.

(I'm trying not to think about the fact that the only instrument our band yet requires is the drums. Or that The Boy is undeniably suited to an instrument that basically allows you to practice being a ninja while sitting down.)

It's used, and it's been around the block a few times. Precariously, undoubtedly, as it is missing its back wheels. But it's got good guts that belie its banged-up appearance, so we have high hopes.

And with that, off to a quick cup of tea and then bed. I've got four more days to go, and I'm already out of onions.

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I'll Get You, My Pretty!

 Friday, October 16, 2009

A conversation overheard:

The Girl: Hey Mom, do you know The Wizard of Oz?

PM: Um, yeah.

TG: Cuz Aidan at Kids Club was singing "we represent the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild we represent the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild..." Do you know that part?

PM: WerepresentheLollipopGuildtheLollipopGuildtheLollipopGuildwerepresenttheLollipopGuildandwishtowelcomeyoutoMunchkinlandasmayorofthemunchkincityinthecountryofhtelandofozwewelcomeyoumostregallybutwe'vegottoverifyitlegallytoseetoseeifsheifsheismorallyethicallyspirituallyphysicallyundeniablyandreliablydead...

The Husband: [sotto voce] Do NOT open that box, kids....

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Teach a Man to Fish...

 Sunday, October 11, 2009

Teach a girl to speak, and her imperious commands accompany her authoritatively where'er she goes.

Teach a girl to write...
...and her dictatorial reign knoweth no physical bounds.

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WHAT is THIS Tomfoolery!?

 Saturday, October 10, 2009

This is what I woke up to this morning:

Holy Too Early Batman! I am NOT ready for this.

Although, the 8 and under set was in its glory:

Yep, this amount of snow definitely requires shovels.

Building a fort, "so that when Dad wakes up we can throw snowballs at him!"

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Cold Much?

 Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Fall is upon us, it seems. A bit harshly, yes? One day it's 25 degrees and the next you're scrounging around for last year's mittens.

Busy, busy around here. Some of it is not my favourite (see: homework), but most of it is good. We're starting to get into the rhythm of school, work continues to hum along, and we move through each week with astonishing rapidity, so that one blink seems to bring a Monday, but the next one brings the weekend.

The Husband's been keeping busy with a gruelling training schedule over the summer preparing for his Big Race, which he ran this past weekend. 10 whole miles!! I'm quite proud of him, not least because I have tried running and pretty much hated every single step. I can't imagine running for over an hour because you want to.

But, he wanted to, and here he is all beaming and bright after finishing:
My beamage and brightness came this weekend in the form of fantastic friends from Canadaland who made their annual trek to see us and love us up good. They introduced us to geocaching, which is essentially "X marks the spot" meets "Big Brother is watching."

Got some nice bike riding in, and we finally found Minnehaha Falls. (Yes, we are obviously in need of some orienteering skills, as we have ridden our bikes around Lake Nokomis before but couldn't find what is actually a relatively large waterfall.)


Lots of hanging out with the littlekins, which I love. One of the hardest parts about living here is knowing all those babies back home are growing up without frequent and gushing administrations of Taunte-PM-Love. Plus, I want so badly for the special little people in our lives to be more than just pictures on the refrigerator to The Boy and The Girl. So watching the 8 and under set exploring together was simply lovely.

And, of course, lots of gratuitous cuteness:

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Nice Try, Guys

 Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Wow, I am im-pressed. Seriously, I did not think you had it in you.


I mean, I knew y'all were sneaky, but this? Is really, really super sneaky.

Oh, don't act so coy - I know you paid off Michael Ignatieff into trying to force an election just so you could get me to move back to Canada.

Yeah, I'll admit I was pretty angry last year when I discovered I wasn't allowed to vote in the Canadian election because I wasn't a resident and because I didn't have a planned re-entry date/address to which to return. It definitely gets my goat that, despite being a citizen of the country (of which I am reminded so frequently every time I try to cross the border back into the US), I don't actually have any say in what goes on there.

To be sure, I don't live there right now. But people I love do. People whose lives impact mine do. And maybe I will be back someday - who knows? My right to Canadian universal healthcare should I return is the only thing that allows me to sleep at night, knowing that I'm one pre-existing condition away from having zero coverage down here.

And I am certainly more than a little perturbed by the logic that says my citizenship is not enough to allow me to vote if I live abroad, but if I lived in Lebanon and found myself the victim of airstrikes, the tax dollars (to which I still contribute, I might add) about which I have no say would be spent rescuing me.

So I can see where y'all would have been thinking that the fires of my rage, not active but still smoldering under the ashes of the past year, would be stoked by another election call in less than a year and that I would be so fed up that I would high-tail it back to Manitoba, hitting the voting booth along the way.

Because.

My friends and family taking up a collection in order to bribe the current leader of the Liberal Party to attempt to force an election less than a year after losing the last one is much, much more plausible than the thought of him calling this election because he thinks he will win.

There's no possible way he's looking at the current political landscape and seeing a road to victory charted anywhere on it. Anyone with eyes can see that this is doomed to failure.

The problem with an election right now, as he surely must know, is that in order to oust the Conservatives, he needs a really big carrot and an even bigger stick:

1) Carrot - a party in such previous disarray as the Liberals needs a charismatic, vibrant, unifying leader who speaks hope and truth and inspires the desire for change (see also: the current president of the United States)

2) Stick - a party with such inertia as the Conservatives will fall only if its leader is so terrible that even its own members want to distance themselves from him, not to mention the undecided (see also: the previous president of the United States)

Ignatieff must surely be aware that he has neither. He is untried, untested. Full of piss and vinegar, to be sure, and doing his best to look like David to Harper's Goliath, but ultimately he hasn't had enough face time nor has he washed away the lingering traces of the Disaster that was Dion from voters still suspicious of whether the Liberal Party has any strength at all right now.

To be sure, he's correct when he says that the current government can't be trusted to deliver its promises, that it's wasting taxpayer dollars, that it's embroiled in petty political fights for the sole purpose of shoring up power.

But this? Equals business as usual in Canadian politics, doesn't matter who's in power.

And constituents, particularly those suffering from the tremendous voter fatigue that infects voters in Canada over the past number of years, need to hate their leader more than they hate going to the polls.

There are lots of people who want Harper gone. But they didn't vote for him last time, either. What Ignatieff needs are the Conservative and NDP votes from last time around. And there simply hasn't been enough time for those people to have enough buyer's remorse to get the numbers he needs out to the polls.

(Of course, Mr. Flip-Flop "I'll back whoever I think will invite me to the 24 Sussex Drive Christmas Party" Layton may have finally lost the last bit of credibility he had, so perhaps the Liberals'll gain a few former-NDPers...)

So, while I admire the lengths to which you've all gone, I really suggest that you very nicely ask for your money back, and give Parliament a bit longer to stew in its own juices. Because, while I'm sincerely flattered, I care too much about Canada to allow such a tremendous gesture on a personal level be so devastating to the Canadian public at large.

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Can't Blog...Busy...

 Friday, September 25, 2009

...blowing up words:

Okay, so I'm not only frittering time away playing geeky typing games.

Slowly, but surely, we're figuring out the homework thing. White binder comes home on Friday and is returned on Monday with the previous week's Math and French. Red folder comes home Monday to be returned the following Monday with English. Yellow folder comes home Friday and should be returned on Wednesday with printing. Powerpoints and online activities are available on the website; weekly homework assignments are posted on the various wikis. Print out one (1) copy of each word study per week and return in aforementioned red folder. Library books come home on Friday: three (3) each French and two (2) each English, to be read in addition to the powerpoints listed above to a minimum total of 15 minutes per night at least 5 (five) nights per week.

Fall seems to have arrived today, so I can finally indulge my baking/soups/carb-loading instincts. Everybody's got their chrystanthemums out (is this just a MN thing, or is it Statesy-wide? This time of year, everyone buys these heeee-yoooge pots of mums and has them decorating their doorsteps).

(Aside: I do not. PM + potted flora = a dead plant and a waste of $$.)

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Vendredi V - The People on the Bus Go Up and Down

 Friday, September 18, 2009

I saw the nicest girl on the bus the other day. A woman boarded and asked the driver how much the ride would cost after she produced some sort of discount fare card. He said, "75 cents," and she began to rummage around in her purse. She pulled out some bills, then turned to everyone and asked, "Anyone got change for a dollar?"

(Which? Makes you either really, really frugal or really, really hard up. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be watching my pennies so closely that I'd ask perfect strangers for change in order to save a quarter. Given the current unclaimed currency that gathers dust on the dryer post-pocket sorting, I realize I pretty much have no idea.)

No one ponied up immediately, so the driver motioned her on. She sat down, and a girl sitting in the front quickly got out her wallet. She found some coins and, smiling, passed them to the newcomer. Then, when the lady tried to make the exchange, the girl waved her off and said, "No, no, that's okay."

Not two minutes later, when a young family toting two preschoolers and a collapsible stroller boarded the bus, this same girl was up and out of her front-row seat and moving towards a less accessible back-of-the-bus seat before both sippy cups had made it on.

(This in stark contrast to the loser teenager who nonchalantly occupied his disabled/elderly/not-for-healthy-young-bucks-unless-there's-no-one-else-on-the-bus prime real estate while the mother of the children stood and tried not to fall over at each frequent stop.)

She was my bus hero that day, a welcome sight on a commute where I have few opportunities to witness similar acts of greatness.

I don't know what it is about bus culture. Something about it tends to invite rudeness - perhaps it is the forced intimacy with strangers, the sweaty heat of late, the strange position of being alone and anonymous while your thigh brushes up against someone else.

And man, was it ever a week to give Miss Manners a run for her money. I give you:

Top 5 Rude Things I Heard On The Bus This Week

1. "WHAT THE ^&% ARE YOU DOING?!?!? WHAT THE &%* IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!" This yelled from the back of the bus to the bus driver, who had the audacity to drive away from a requested stop after looking in the mirror and not seeing the now-understandably-irate man who decided only after the fact that he wanted to get off.

2. "So, like, there he was eating tacos without any cheese or sour cream, but he had parmesan cheese, so that seemed really strange, but also at the same time kind of cute, you know? and how he didn't want to come over because he'd be all sad to see my dog and then have to, you know, put him back into my bedroom..." I suppose that one can't really blame young people who seem to think that once the bus gets going it's time to pull out their cell phones. So much condemnation is levelled these days at those who talk/text/put on make-up/eat/read the newspaper while they drive their cars that they must see themselves as model citizens for pursuing these activities while under the capable care of a designated driver.

Plus, given that phone booths have gone the way of the dodo, I can see how one might confuse one long metal cylinder with the other. Except for that part about how a phone booth allowed you to have a private conversation, while a bus simply ensures that the entire bus has the pleasure of finding out about last night's craaaaazy party - oh YEAH!!

3. [...] Silence today, from the woman who pretended to be so deeply engrossed in her book that she failed to notice the rest of us standing in the aisle, looking down with contempt at her purse. Which had a seat to itself, while the rest of us tried to plant our feet firmly so we wouldn't topple over when we hit highway speed.

4. "Crunch, crunch, crunch." Confession time: I HATE being around other people eating cereal. The drinking of milk from the bowl is awful, and I have to avert my eyes and think about other things than their adam's apple when I see someone do it. Worse than seeing it all is the sound. I cannot handle that schmauksy sound it makes. Worse than the sound? The smell. Worst cereal smell?! CHEERIOS. Which the girl behind me was noisily eating for over 15 blocks on Tuesday. The sound was bad enough, but smelling her post-mastication-Cheerios-chasing-coffee breath alllllmost did me in.

5. "pshhhhhhhh" Hey buddy. Those AXE commercials where one spray leads to nubile, sweaty, scantily-clad women descending upon you with hunger in their eyes and nostrils flaring appreciatively? That's called MAR-KUH-TING. That doesn't really happen.

And the bus on a hot day when I can't open the windows because the lady in front of me will frown at me because it is messing up her hair and I've got 30 minutes of my ride left is NOT the place for you to make a quick addition to your sex appeal right before getting off and leaving us with the long-lingering reminders of your machismo.

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What Would You Do?

 Thursday, September 17, 2009

So, let's say you're running out the door to head to work. It's 5:50 am, so it's pretty dark in the garage.

You place your coffee and the container with your favourite on-the-go breakfast (one peeled, hard-boiled egg with a bit of salt - perfect protein in a snack size!) on top of the car and think, "heh-heh, better not forget that they're up there!" while you stow the rest of your career-woman's baggage.

You reverse down the driveway (hypothetically, of course) and head down the street. A few yards into the drive you hear a tiny clunk and, remembering your earlier premonition, quickly glance down. Coffee mug? Check. Egg?

Not so much check.

A glance in the rearview mirror provides nothing but more darkness, so you do a quick U-turn. Your lights pick up an upside-down container...and...a few feet further on...an egg.

Sighing, you go outside to retrieve the mess you made. The container is unscathed, but the egg? Quite scathed. Like some biker-meets-road misfortune, pieces have been torn off, and there's gravel embedded in the raw flesh.

You hop back into the car (all of this totally in theory) and continue on. Then you think about how that egg was your breakfast.

And how you're trying to eat healthy these days. And how the only food available for purchase at this hour in the building where you work is greasy breakfast sandwiches or baked goods. And how even if you vow to yourself to get the yogurt parfait or the reduced fat blueberry muffin at Starbucks (which is healthy in the same way as saying, "I'm totally going to choose the butcher knife because the cutlass and the machete are way too dangerous to handle" is safe), you will probably end up getting the deep-fried-major-glazed-apple-fritter.

(Like you always do.)

And how this forlorn, beat-up, road-rashed egg is pretty much the only thing between you and lunch.

What would you do?




(I totally ate it.)




(However, as mentioned, I remembered my mug - huzzah! So I rinsed the egg off with a bit of coffee, and it was good as new. Well, not really. But I got the gravel off.)




(Well, not really.)

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So Much for Playtime

 Monday, September 14, 2009

In the summer before my last year in the Faculty of Education (which ended up being "last" in a different way than I thought), I was informed by the Powers That Be that I could not, in fact, take my remaining three academic credit hours as I had planned during the upcoming school year.

This certification year, they told me, was exclusively for student teaching and, as it was on an entirely different schedule than regular classes, I was not allowed to combine them.

(Because, of course, three years in university had not yet fitted me for that intricate task of figuring out my own schedule, and it was totally out of the question that I take an evening class in addition to my day-time duties.)

Scrambling, I checked out the summer schedule, and found a psychology course - Organizational Behaviour. Excellent! A few class discussions on why people go all Lord of the Flies in the absence of clear authority, the odd test or two, and I had it made. The Husband even signed up, too, figuring it would be a great way to polish off one of his Arts requirements. Plus? Doing something as a couple...awww.

The Husband wasn't able to make the first class (but who cared? We could tag-team such an easy class if we wanted to, right?), and so it wasn't until the first break that I could phone him (from - old crone that I am - a pay phone - who uses pay phones anymore?):

Hey, how's it going?

Do you have the school calendar in front of you?

Uh yeah, why?

You need to find any other class that I can possibly take instead of this psychology course. And I mean ANYTHING.

Uh, there's Calculus I. By correspondence.

Perfect! It can't POSSIBLY be more work than this one.

Unfortunately, Organizational Behaviour was being taught by a Ph.D. student that summer. A student who clearly had forgotten undergrad work levels and determined that there was no reason we couldn't read a textbook's worth of material each week, prepare a paper, and come ready to discuss the mountain of reading.

It was either take this class or keep my job (hola, Smitty's!). So I chose Calculus.

I am wondering if perhaps The Girl's third grade teacher is also a Ph.D. student. How else to explain the following requirements:

- 15 minutes of reading every night
- Timed reading of each week's powerpoint every night
- Practicing the week's spelling words every night
- Nightly math worksheets
- Math flash cards to prepare for timed tests

All to a suggested total of 45 minutes per night. The above does not include her English reading, either.

Now, I'm all for helping my child learn. Education is a partnership between parents and teachers, and I want to support her in her Journey to Knowledge. But is it just me, or is this all a tad EXCESSIVE?

It doesn't help that last year's teacher didn't believe in homework, and so assigned the bare minimum. Homework was a sheet or two of math each week, which The Girl did on the bus ride to school because we forgot about it pretty much every time.

Oh, and we're also supposed to read to The Boy every night. 30 minutes preferably, but 10 minutes at the bare minimum.

And I'll bet you can just imagine how well all of this is going over around here. Lots of crankiness, tears, and "I hate homework! This is stupid!"

(The Girl and The Boy aren't terribly pleased either.)

Methinks I should just enroll them in Calculus instead. It couldn't possibly be any harder than this.

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School Daze

 Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Aaaaand, they're off!


Quick, guys, smile - the bus is coming! Who cares if you're centred?!

And thus it all begins again.

I love back to school. The promise of new backpacks, shiny notebooks, special first day of school outfits (speaking of which, could she possibly wear any more colours?).

Summer's end is so bittersweet. On the one hand, I'm sad to say good-bye to those hazy, lazy, long warm days.

On the other, I heave a sigh of relief that we're finally back to routine. The loosey-gooseyness of holidays is fine for awhile, but I'm a creature of habit, as we all know.

The kids both had good days for their first day of school yesterday. The Boy woke up and announced, "Thanks, Mom, for signing me up for school!" He came home a little deflated from this earlier height of excitement, reporting that he had "been shy." The Girl also seems to have had a good day - she listed off all of the former compadres she'd played with on the playground and I was reminded about what a social butterfly she is.

(Also: how hard those first days are. If I seem distracted right now, it's because of a MAY-JOR meltdown behind me. Terrible mom, that I am, for not letting her have enough honey on her pancake. [Also terrible? Not grocery shopping for three weeks so we're totally out of staples like pancake syrup.])

(Also also? We're having pancakes for dinner. Sigh.)

Nonetheless, a beginning of fits and starts is still a beginning and it is so nice to be starting this big edu-ma-cation machine up again.

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Who's Running This Show, Anyway?

 Saturday, September 5, 2009

[door opens, PM comes in, sets down her luggage]

WHAT the...!

[looks around in shock]

I am positive that when I left on my unannounced hiatus, I told you Blogger Elves® to post regularly. And now just look at this place! It's filthy! It's stale! It's all [hands waving in air wildly] COBWEBBY!

This is just perfect. Juuuust perfect. What do you think all four PGT readers are thinking now?! They're thinking that I just up and left, that when my kids were gone to Grandma's for two weeks that I simply abandoned all housekeeping duties (including, but not limited to, bathroom cleaning, laundry, and/or blogging).

That I haven't cooked anything harder than a frozen pizza in two weeks. That I've tried all sorts of new restaurants, gone to a movie, and walked leisurely down by the lake more times than I can count.

That The Husband went on a business trip last week so I had even less interest in doing anything and descended into a languid stupor of Old Dutch and Terry Pratchett.

[...]

DON'T give me that. Yes, of course that's all true. But they weren't supposed to know about it! YOU were supposed to maintain a presence over here in this corner of the internets, not lie around drinking and thinking of good blog posts without actually writing them. Like me.

HARUMPH. All I know is, this is the last time I leave you guys in charge. Next time, I'm hiring an intern.

[grumbles, picks up broom, starts sweeping]

Want something done...do it yourself...stupid elves...thank goodness school starting next week...back to normal around here...grrrrr.

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Little Hooligans on the Prairie

 Saturday, August 22, 2009

And with a huge WHOOSH - South Dakota breathes a sigh of relief that the PM clan has left its once-hallowed borders.

We're on the final leg of the trip - South Dakota back to the Twin Cities via Steinbach. Not entirely on the way, but what's a 7-hour detour when it means dropping off the kids at Grandma's for two whole weeks?

So just a short pit stop in Manitoba before The Husband and I head for home. My plan for this afternoon is to clean out the car. Which, given that we took a teensy-tiny Jetta and stopped in five different places plus drove over thirty hours in it, will likely involve kerosene and a match.

And now: Vacation Picture Dump

Washing clothes like Ma did at the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.
Walking around Sylvan Lake, trying to convince The Boy he did not need to catch a minnow.
So deceptive - looks so calm, doesn't she?

Triumphant hikers up Harney Peak - a 4.5 hour round trip! (Thinking: If anyone goes any closer to the edge, they will get a time-out AND lose their DS, I am totally serious.)

Checking out the paleontological dig at the Mammoth Site.
Mom Teddy for president.

This is the test tunnel at Jewel Cave to see if you are svelte enough to go on the spelunker's tour. It is 8.5 inches high. The Husband is not going on the tour.

Mom, are Jackalopes real? Only at Wall Drug, dear.
Bringing her jackalope for a visit to her natural habitat in the Badlands.

My best part of the entire trip: Cracker Barrel. I love Cracker Barrel with my whole heart. (I look a little bit crusty because it is the last day and while my mouth is saying, ooooo, fried apples and hashbrown casserole, my eyes and furrowed brow are saying, another picture?)

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Head Out on the Highway...

 Saturday, August 15, 2009

Here's the view from the front seat for the next week:

The Husband looks a bit disgruntled here. He off-loaded the "load the iPod" responsibility to someone else, and The Essential Leonard Cohen is not what he had in mind.

The Girl is doing some hardcore Baum-ing with The Patchwork Girl of Oz. Please do not let your eye linger on that tell-tale golden-arched box beside her. The only time we let them have Happy Meals is when we're leaving on a road trip - for true!

The Boy is watching "The Muffets" - not so much a second-generation hip-hop musical version of a nursery rhyme, but more a mistaken swapping of F's for P's.
Yep, the PM family is out on the open road, following that time-honoured tradition of the Summer Holidays Driving Trip. We've never actually taken a trip with the kids anywhere other than from here to Canada (something The Girl tearfully reminded me the other day, protesting that "some of my friends have been to DisneyWorld five times and I've never been ANYWHERE!").

I loved road trips as a kid. Well, I love my memories of them, which is the point, right? We often hiked out to the left coast to see family, and I remember how ah-MAY-zing it was to stay in a hotel (pools! cable! coffeemakers in the bathroom!). I remember the excitement of eating in restaurants Every Single Meal (more often than not, the Golden Arches). I remember stopping at various tourist money-sucking traps attractions and overloading on kitsch and tacky souvenirs.

So far, no fighting, good sleeping, and nothing lost. Clearly, this state of affairs in entirely unsustainable and I give it another hour or two before it descends into irritable, dirty, sticky children and grim-faced parents admonishing their brood to Sit Down and Be Quiet so we can Have FUN! We've carb-loaded on stale continental breakfast, hit the 4ft x 8ft hotel pool (complete with murky lukewarm hot tub) and are now waiting out the rain so we can slosh around in the leftover mud at the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.

In other words, a perfect start.

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