Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

from HERE

First, let me just remind you of how much I love comments. Comments are better than brownies or endless fields of mustard in bloom. Better than airshows. Better than shoes you buy at Nordstrom Rack because they are so cheap. They are better than being stopped by a stranger and told you look like Kate Winslet. They are better than making every green light and better than those new 100 calorie York Peppermint candy bars.

They are not better than trips to Venice or the way the tummy skin of my kids feels. They are not better than renting a house in Stinson for the weekend and cooking dinner with a bunch of friends. They are not better than this conversation I had with Oliver on the way to school this morning. Still, keep 'em coming.

OLIVER

What school does Georgia go to?

ME

She goes to big kid school. She's a second grader.

OLIVER

What's a second grader?

ME

When you are six you are a first grader, when you are seven you are a second grader, when you are eight...

OLIVER

And I know another important one that is sharp! A cheese grater!

I blame the Mister for what is obviously a genetic trait toward puns.

Good people doing good things

If I looked better in a feed cap and boots I'd be a farmer. In the meantime, I'm content to track chicken shit into the aerobics studio at my gym on the soles of my shoes and leave the hard stuff to these good people.

GH_Peek in Progress from The Greenhorns on Vimeo.

If you want to help get this film finished, go HERE and give them some moolah.

What a difference a year makes

I am constantly amazed at Maggie's and Ollie's pace of growth. If I could learn and develop at even half their rate I'd have won a Nobel Prize by now, in multiple categories. I'd also be, like, a thousand feet tall with really big boobs.

This weekend we went to the pumpkin patch. It's one of those slightly tawdry places where the jumpy houses are filthy and the guy filling up the $2 balloons has a cigarette dangling from his mouth. But, the kids love it. Despite their rapid rate of development, their snob reflex hasn't kicked into gear yet.

2008 Oliver

2009 Oliver

The first thing Ollie did upon arrival was go running excitedly up to the wooden cutout of Homer Simpson shouting, "Dad! Dad! This is the guy who loves beer!" He then proceeded to have a conversation with wooden Homer that went something like this. "Mmm, beer. Woo hoo!" Which is more or less the sound that the Mister's Homer Simpson bottle opener makes.

2008 Magnolia

2009 Magnolia

It was such a change from the year before when they were only two-and-a-half and still wandering the world in a sort of babyish daze. Now they're all kid-like and confident. Now they take those jumpy slides by storm and approach really, really famous celebrities to talk about malted, adult beverages.

Read this

Read THIS if you are struggling as a parent, or if you are having a hard day, or if you are in any way a human being. It's beautiful. Thanks, Laura.

On the dole

I have a very fuzzy memory of standing in line at the Welfare office with my mother as a young child. I remember playing with those movie-theater ropes that swung like hammocks as we slowly made our way toward the impassive face behind the glass-fronted window. My mother had a stack of papers in her hand. Most likely she was wearing her burgundy-colored Levi's Bend-Over slacks (when read as a command that sounds awfully dirty). I was probably in my bright yellow Big Bird overalls, the very first piece of clothing I remember caring about.

My mom was not on Welfare for long. Just in those first bleak years of single motherhood in the early '70s. Soon she would be donning her polyester dickie and her lab coat and heading off to clean people's teeth while I went to the house of that scary babysitter who washed kids' mouths out with soap (child abuse! my mother claimed), and tried to feed me egg salad with sweet relish.

She's still at it! But with better clothes

Then today, I was back. Ok, not Welfare exactly, but the Unemployment office. More specifically, the buzzing, fluorescent-lit Employment Development Department, where I had to take a class this morning to satisfy the requirements of my $440-a-week checks from the government.

Sitting there in that windowless room, listening to Jack walk us through how to fill in boxes (no check marks! God, please, no check marks!) I couldn't help but think of The Full Monty. Since watching that movie is the closest I've come to this type of place since the Big Bird overalls days, it sort of made sense. And besides, my entertainment choices were pretty much whittled down to daydreaming about British working class male strippers, listening to Jack make stale jokes about the Govenator, or gnawing off my own hand.

Please watch this extreme charmingness in action:

And I have to say, aside from the fact that today's visit was seriously lacking in good disco music and pelvic thrusts (would a little Donna Summer kill them?), it wasn't really so bad. In fact, I'm actually quite grateful for my government handouts. And believe me, I've done way worse things for $440 a week.

Why I don't wear thongs

One time, back in those halcyon days of flying alone on planes, I was seated in a middle seat next to a woman with a screaming baby. She was alone, sitting in the aisle seat and struggling to calm her baby. As he wailed miserably, people all around were emitting audible puffs of disappointment and impatience. There was much eye rolling and why-me sighing. Our fellow back-of-the-planers were ringing their little flight attendant buttons and pleading to change seats, all right in front of this poor woman with the howling infant.

I was doing my usual thing, which is to say I was reading a book and pretending not to be there. I don't normally speak to people on planes. I'm not good with strangers and I generally don't like to get involved. So, although I wasn't requesting a seat change or rolling my eyes like some entitled jerk, neither was I offering much in the way of a sympathetic ear.

Once we all got settled and buckled in, the dreaded delay announcement came from the pilot, and on top of the infant howling and the adult moaning, there was a collective why-does-this-always-happen-to-me exhale. The baby took it up a notch, as if the plane delay were just what he needed on top of the day he was having. It was all quite highly agitated in our little aluminum tube.

This was when the guy sitting in front of me with all the hair gel turned around, removed an earbud, and asked the mom if there was anything she could do to quiet the baby, as if maybe she were napping and enjoying an in-flight movie while her child screamed away in a concerted effort to interfere with his Green Day album.

The whole thing was just too depressing for words and I plummeted into one of those the-world-is-such-a-shitty-cruel-place kind of funks at which I excel. I didn't like the sound of the baby crying any more than anyone else, but, hey, there are babies in the world. That's why there are also earplugs in the world.

At the height of all the depressing social shunning of the mother and her baby, a woman approached from a few seats back, leaned over and wordlessly took the screaming baby in her arms, held him over her shoulder, and walked him up and down the aisle until he stopped screaming. The mother watched in awe. It was if harps started playing and fairy dust rained down upon us all.

from here

At the risk of sounding a little like one of those mysterious Foundation for a Better Life ads, I am convinced this angel in a tight perm and elastic waist jeans descended to Earth to show us all how easy it is to make things better. All you have to do is help out a little.

Which is more than I can say for the old lady who descended during one of my more stressful parenting moments.

It was pouring outside and in an effort to allow my kids to blow off a little steam, I took them to the mall, where everyone in San Francisco had had the exact same idea. The place was thronged with people in dripping boots and damp jackets. And, lucky for me, my kids had recently decided it was positively hilarious to run away from me in two different directions.

I was at the very end of my already frayed rope, physically holding down Oliver as I strapped him into the stroller (aka child containment device) while I begged Maggie to stop and watched while she disappeared into a forest of legs. I was sweating so hard I could feel droplets running down my sides and into the waist of my jeans. The only reason I was not crying was fear of public shaming.

It was at this moment that a smiling old woman in bright pink lipstick touched my shoulder to get my attention. I looked into her face, expecting a word of encouragement or an empathetic story about surviving motherhood. Instead she pursed her lips and said, "Dear, everyone can see your butt crack when you bend over like that."

The Circle of Life (with pieces of ham)

When I was a kid my mother used to say "Children's waste goes to mother's waist" as she picked at my leftovers. I am embarrassed to admit that I did not understand this little play on words until adulthood. Probably post-college (I can be a little slow sometimes).

Having chickens has made me realize how much food our own kids waste. On the counter we have a bowl into which we scrape all scraps considered delectable by chickens (basically everything but garlic, onions, coffee grounds and egg shells). It's a lot of food.

Here's the breakfast and lunch contributions for today:

(poppy seed bread, pieces of ham, pita chips, radish tops, nibbled apple slices, cheese, milk)

But here's the good news: they turn all this into eggs. Everyday. Garbage into food!

(That egg on the left is the normal size for our chickens.

That egg on the right is some monster birthed after much loud squawking yesterday.

I'm betting it's a triple-yolker. Poor dear. )

Okay, so I'm leaving out the poop part. If I'm perfectly honest I have to admit that mostly, they turn our leftovers into poop. But does this bother me? Does it gross me out? It does not! Because we turn the poop into compost which we use to grow the vegetables that our kids won't eat. The vegetables that end up in the scrap bowl, and are fed to the chickens, who turn it into eggs...and poop. We're like our own little biosphere over here.