For my sister
Who provided me with this week's parenting
bons mots courtesy of Reese Witherspoon (with whom, need it be said, I strongly identify...):
If you're not yelling at your kids, then you're not spending enough time with them. She's "rum," by the way. My sister, not Reese. Reese and I are too busy yelling at our children and attending glamourous galas to drink together these days. Sigh.
| You Are A Martini |
You are the kind of drinker who appreciates a nice hard drink.
And for you, only quality alcohol. You don't waste your time on the cheap stuff.
Obviously, you're usually found with a martini in your hand. But sometimes you mix it up with a gin and tonic.
And you'd never, ever consider one of those flavored martinis. They're hardly a drink! |
(Overdue) Dog Blogging
Here he is, in answer to the demands of my small but loyal fan base. Our new dog. He's a rescued pit-bull mix, incredibly sweet and submissive, one-and-a-half years old, and 50-odd pounds of wild enthusiasm and love. As my husband used to say (although I don't think it was original to him), "There is no love like dog love." So true.
Mr. Dog has caused considerable disruption; the cats have taken up semi-permanent residence in the basement, because he chases them mercilessly, and because they have not figured out that he is, in fact, a wimp who cowers in fear of their claws and hissing.
He looks and sounds fierce, but the other night, he alerted me to a possible intruder ("Hey, I have a pitbull," I think, foolishly. "I can just leave my doors and windows wide open at all hours of the night."). He ran furiously to the kitchen, barking like crazy, and then ran back just as quickly to hide behind my legs. I had to drag him by the collar to investigate. Fortunately, (and contrary to my fevered imaginings), the barking was elicited not by an armed bandit entering my home, but by the peculiar troglodyte cousin from California who has taken up temporary residence in the empty house next door, and who appears to like to sneak into his own residence under cover of complete darkness, even when that makes it very difficult for him to get the key into the lock.
My daughter loves him--mostly--except that he has a wicked loving tongue and a tendency toward eye-boogers and unpleasant mucousy secretions of mysterious origins.
My Daughter, "My Sharona"
We've only recently been freed of the tyranny of the constant "kids music" in the car (it was Ella Jenkins's wonderful multicultural stuff, but
still. This morning, the radio station was playing "My Sharona" (which, my sister tells me, was the first album she ever bought. Wow; "Meet the Knack," Right? A Beatles take-off? Or was it "Get the Knack"? I didn't own it, obviously...) The dog (yes, we got a dog; sorry to have failed in the dog-bloggery, but more about him later) was whining and snorffling in the back, knowing that as soon as the daughter was safely at preschool, we were heading to the park to play "search and destroy" with the sponge-bob dog toy).
Anywaymy daughter said, "Mama, the dog is whining and fussing so much I CAN'T HEAR MY MUSIC!"
Her music? "My Sharona"? Over my dead, cold, maggot-riddled body.
Number 9
Nine lonely goddam months. Soon it will have been a year, and then what will I do with myself?
