You knew it was coming.

I’m taking a quick break from my frantic laundry/packing binge to alert you readers that it’s vacation season again. I’m hoping it won’t be like this one. Or this one.

I’m hoping I won’t forget any necessary, highly embarrassing personal items so I don’t have to wander the Superama in a frenzy like I did last year.  Especially since I don’t have a friend along to share my shame this time.

But y’all know something’s going to happen.

Are you rubbing your hands together in anticipatory glee?

Actually, something has already gone amiss and we haven’t left yet.  Yesterday afternoon, while doing some very girly pushups, my left wrist began hurting like a bugger. Upon examination, I noticed a tender, raised lump on the end of the wrist, and when I pushed on it, it became really pissed off.

I showed it to husband when he got home and he said, “Oh, that’s a ganglion cyst.”

” A gargoyle-ion whaaaa?”

“Ganglion. You’ll probably have to have surgery on it but when we get back, try having somebody drain it first.”

Now doesn’t that just sound awesome?

Plus, I get to lurch around the resort and brave the swimsuit-eating waterslide with a deformed wrist. FrankenMommy.

Ah, vacation in the land of the T. family. I’ll have stories for you. Count on it.

Stay happy and ganglion-free, readers!  Internet service in Mexico is spotty at best, but I’ll be back at the beginning of June! I’ll miss you!

Linking up with MamaKat today, answering the prompt: Tell us about a pet.

Okay, so I’m totally cheating here, because this was the shortest “pet ownership” on record, but hey, creative license.

I’m not competent at caring for pets. Or any living, growing thing, for that matter. God knows why I ever thought I’d be able to raise children, because my caregiving track record is hella bad.

In my lifetime, I’ve killed 7,000 plants, at least 20 fish (accidentally!), assassinated a hamster, given a baby duck a heart attack, and found Carnage in the Cage when my pet gerbil, Laverne, ate my sister’s gerbil, Shirley. Clearly, gerbil roommates do not go on wacky adventures and work at the Schotz brewing company together. Gerbils are Norman Bates-type roomies. Who knew?

Now that I think about it, some of my roommates in college bore an uncanny resemblance to Hannibal the Cannibal Laverne.

One of my more traumatic pet capers involved driving Wallace, the cat on a suicide mission, to the pound. HEY. That cat K.O.’ed three Apple computers in a year, gnawing compulsively on electrical cords, and I was on a teacher’s salary, so my conscience is clean.

I do feel bad about the hamster, though. In fact, the only thing I can bring myself to use that Le Crueset Dutch Oven for now is for foot fungus treatments. Don’t judge. Foot fungus happens. Yeasty, beasty foot fungus. Note to self: shower shoes at the gym are a neccessity.

Off topic…sorry.

Anyways, about the shortest-living pet ever.

Scene: Advanced Biology (yep, the same gig where the Great Rat Dissection took place)…but this time, it was Get the Goldfish Drunk Day!

Perpetrators: Me and my lab partner/friend Stacey C..

Victim: Goldie the Goldfish. (crikey, were we really that unoriginal? *hangs head in shame*)

Here’s the rub: students are assigned a goldfish, which is in a bowl of meticulously measured water and instructed to use a dropper-thingy (is it any wonder I didn’t become a scientist?) to dispense drops of alcohol into the fishbowl.

The scientific method here is to closely monitor how much alcohol goes into the water and to report, in fishy detail, how it affects your specimen.

Stacey and I kinda felt jealous of Goldie as we plopped our little boozy drops into her habitat. Nobody ever let us get drunk in class! Why do fish have all the fun?

Pretty soon, our classmates were cackling, watching their drunken goldfish swim sideways and crooked and knocking into the glassy barriers of the fishbowl. Some talented dudes even swam upside down.

Goldie: Nothin’.

Stacey and I peered into the bowl, bewildered.

“Is something wrong with her?” Stacey asked.

“I dunno. She seems fine.” We wandered over to the other fishbowls, observing, and then returned to Goldie.

“She’s not drunk at all,” Stacey said.

And then it hit me. “Ohmigod. Stace. This fish is Irish.”

“They have fish from different parts of Europe?”

“Shut up! This fish is definitely Irish. I betcha, Goldie can drink all these fish under the table and still walk home after shirking the bar tab.”

“Okay…what should we do?”

I grabbed the dropper. “We give her a few more Guinness stouts.”

Plop, plop, plopplopplop.

We waited, eyes glued to the bowl.

Goldie started to perk right up (further proof that she was Irish, because all of the other fish were dragging fins).

“Now we’re talkin’” I said, scribbling data into my notebook. “How many drops did we put in again?”

“Um. Dude.”

“Was it nine? Ten?”

“Dude.” Stacey tapped her pencil sharply on the bowl. “Look.”

Goldie had gone from Irish Jig to floating in about 2 seconds.

“Shit.”

“I guess we flunk this lab, huh?”

“Hey, at least she died happy. Right?”

Of course right. She was Irish.

Just Write.

Wild horses run through my head, leaving tracks that even a hard Kentucky rain won’t erase. They’ve been cantering around, those equine bastards, for days. Pissing and marking their territory like some hangdog mutt. But these dogs are horses. More is at stake.

I’ve always loved the horses. The smell of the racetrack, the thunder and crush of them as they run, tails on fire. The way they’re magnificent without knowing.

The horses in my brain are not the same.

I don’t enjoy my horses but they’re home to me and I hunker down and lean in, because that’s what you do if you know your horses.

As long as I’ve been on this Earth and able to walk, it’s been horses. In the flesh or in the mind, it doesn’t matter.

They force me to stand in my tracks, quiet myself, listen.

Is it their eyes, the blackblack of them that’s dark but soft at the same time? Is it the way they sniff at an outstretched hand, halt for a moment, consider, and lean in if you pass muster?

Is it the way they inhale spring air, claw the dirt beneath them and decide “yes, yes, it’s time to run.”

Wild horses don’t question things.

When it feels right, they run.

They run and they run and you hope to Hell you’ve bet a Trifecta, because you know they’re going for broke.

Happy Mother’s Day, readers! In honor, I’m recounting my first brush with motherhood today. Enjoy and I hope it makes you laugh!

Miss D. was born in December, in a town where I didn’t have any friends. I gave up a lot for love: my impeccably decorated condominium, a career that I loved, my comfortable city. But that man. Oh. How could any girl say no? So I left it all behind. My mother thought I was insane–who sacrifices everything on a whim?   But I just knew.

Marriage came fast. So did motherhood.  I got pregnant so easily I was stunned–was this really all there was to it?

Of course, first-born didn’t stay easy. She made me sick and peevish for five months, and on a day in December–on her due date, in fact–she came in the middle of a blizzard. My parents vowed to fight ice and wind to get there in time, even though it was folly to do so.

The roads were treacherous, just on the short ride to the hospital, and I called them from the hospital lobby, telling them not to bother, but I was alone, walking the hallways, trying to dilate.  The agony seemed excruciatingly fast and hard, and as I crouched in a corner near the telephone, urging my parents to stay home, I knew they wouldn’t. Because I was alone.

Hubs was nowhere in sight–he was back out in the snowy night, trying to find childcare for Awesome Stepkid Ro in a town we hadn’t been in long.

I was hunkered there, bent over and clutching my belly, propped against a lobby wall, when an enormous African American woman, with two adorable children at her side entered the hospital, took one look at me, put her hands on her hips and said indignantly, “Girl? Where is your man?” And suddenly, it really did hit me. I might have to do this all by myself.

What if Mama and Daddy got stuck in the snow, or worse, in an accident? What if nobody could care for a 7-year old boy for God-knows-how-long this was going to take? I would have to do this myself. I really, really, did not want to do this by myself.

I was in the bathtub, naked and fat, thrashing like a freshly caught trout when my parents arrived. Daddy took one look at me had to leave the room. Mama sat on the edge of the tub, watching me heave back and forth.

When the nurse came back, and took a look at me, she quickly got me out of the bathtub, took a peek and said, “OhmyGod. You’ve gone from a 3 to a 10 in, like, 20 minutes. I haven’t even called the anesthesiologist yet. Don’t cough, don’t laugh, don’t do anything.”  She ran from the room on her stocky legs.

She shouldn’t have bothered calling the anesthesiologist. That baby came down the birth canal like a Russian on a luge. My husband barely made it before Miss D debuted, pissed off  and wailing, small eyes rolling around the room, as if wondering, “Where the Hell am I and who is to blame for this?”

“Where’s the champagne?” I hissed at my husband–giving birth without anesthesia calls for champagne, dammit.

His eyes widened. “I’ll go get some.”  Wise man.

“This is a tiny one,” the nurse by the scale said. “A little over 5 pounds. Apgar’s good, though. Awww, look,” she said to another nurse. “She has a tiny mongolian spot on her butt.”

Then the bleeding began. And continued. And continued. The nurse wearing the new white Keds was not amused when my blood engulfed them. I apologized and promised to buy her a new pair.

“The placenta’s attached,” the doctor said harshly to my mother. “We need to get her into the ER now.”  She looked me directly in the eye. “I need to tell you that this usually requires a hysterectomy. I’m sorry.”

Inexplicably, I started laughing. “Well, this is the perfect time to tell me. Because I’m never doing this again. Go for it.” Mama looked stricken.

“Can I just hold her once before I go?” I asked.

For a brief moment, they put my little, warm monkey girl on my chest. And then she promptly shit all over me.

Motherhood had begun.

Hello, wonderful readers! Today I want to share some beautiful, bracingly honest words from my friend Pamela. Pamela blogs here and is truly gifted when it comes to the written word. Today she’s writing about friendship, and how the landscape of friendship changes as we age, in unexpected ways.  I’d love to hear your feedback in the comments section (and I know Pamela would, too.) As I read her piece, I found myself nodding in recognition.

Please make her feel welcome and enjoy!

********

For most of my life I’ve been a “girl’s girl.” In my twenties I rarely had a boyfriend and I was always up for anything: a run, a trip to the mall, a night out in La Jolla for drinks. I was surrounded by an extensive circle of women I loved, and because of this, I’ve had an irrational self-confidence in my ability to make friends. I was absolutely convinced that I would remain single forever, but in terms of other women, I couldn’t imagine ever feeling lonely.

Somehow, during my thirties, this all changed. I did finally find a boyfriend, and married him. We had a baby and then another. But my husband is also in the Navy, and because of this, we move every two years. Soon, my close circle of friends was miles away. Some were in San Diego, some in Philadelphia, and some in Palo Alto. At first I didn’t think this would be a problem. “I’m really good at making friends,” I told my husband during our first move.

What really happened was that when I took my toddler son to the park, he had a huge tantrum over another child’s dump truck and suddenly, instead of invitations to play dates I was receiving those looks. One woman came over to me and gave me the name of a book that she said, “might help you.”

On another day, I was talking to a woman who I thought could become a friend. She seemed to have a liberal bent so it seemed safe to confess that I was very much against George W. Bush’s politics and the current war, when suddenly, she yanked my arm and pulled me off to the side of the sand box.

“You should never criticize the president,” she hissed at me. “Or even the Republicans. They’re the ones approving our husbands’paychecks.”

I walked home that day feeling a bit bewildered. In my twenties, I followed the “Sex & the City” rules for friendship, the first of which was that the bond between girlfriends was stronger than anything else. Now, I seemed to be living in a 21^st century version of“Thirtysomething.” Somehow friendship had become imbued with politics and parenting. With husbands.

Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose begins with the line: “Now I believe they will leave me alone,”which has been my approach to friendship ever since. It wasn’t that one incident of course, but many of them, piled on top of each other, making the trip to the playground or school drop-off sometimes seem as intimidating as approaching my high school locker room mirror, where the cheerleaders used to spray their salon-sized cans of Aqua Net.  And to think I used to be so good at friendship.

I am lucky enough to have a great friend and former cross-country teammate who will always be a jewel in my heart. I have another friend from my twenties who is like a sister, and a dear friend from DC who is incredibly intuitive and unfailingly kind. Through blogs, I have “met” several amazing women and we write to each other, like modern pen pals.

But even old friendships aren’t immune to the ravages of time and changing values, children and money issues, religion and politics. During this past year, one of my very dearest and oldest friendships began to fray and snap. I held on as long and as tightly as I could, but it was becoming clear that both of us were suffering – from distance, disconnection, and an old theme of competition. One night, after a phone conversation with Margaret, I went for a walk because I was reeling with sadness and hurt. I felt attacked and betrayed, and a bit confused. As I walked through the cold night, I thought about the agenda my friendships seemed to be based upon, which were qualities that were important to me at 21 but that I no longer care about now that I am 40.

When we moved to Jacksonville, North Carolina to live on the Marine base here, a few people said that I would probably be lonely in the strange southern town I now find myself, which is not so much a town as it is a cluster of tattoo parlors and used car dealerships, sad little gatherings of storefronts where Spanky’s Sports Bar squats next door to God’s House of Deliverance. There is a gentlemen’s club called The Driftwood, which advertises that Luscious Lucia will be dancing tonight, and the windows of the Waffle Shoppe next door are too greasy to see into.

And yet, this town holds as much kindness and grace as I would expect to find in an ashram along the Ganges. I teach at a yoga studio in one of these strip malls, right next to a notary and a cat clinic, a paint store, and another evangelical center of worship. The students trickle in with their smiles and their mats and during savasana we listen to the silence and the boom of artillery on Camp Lejeune that punctuates the quiet.

Dani, who owns the studio, is a former school guidance counselor and a single mom. Last spring, she left her job and used all her savings to open the studio, which she runs by herself, and I am constantly struck by the fact that although she has given every cent she has to her dream, she is rich with a liberating sort of happiness. I hadn’t expected to find yoga in Jacksonville, or a person as joyful and generous as Dani, but then again, I hadn’t counted on the power of kindness. How could that have not been on my list of what is required in a friend?

Yesterday, my next-door neighbor Remy came over and asked if we wanted to get together and grill tonight with the neighbors across the street. Remy, who is from Saipan, is making red rice and guacamole, and Lisa, who grew up in Germany, is making some kind of potato salad and dessert. Scott and I took the ten pounds of homemade sausage someone recently gave to him out of the freezer and I made tofu kabobs.

Someone asked me recently if I was lonely here, without friends, and I answered honestly that I am not. I live on a street where a quarter of the men are gone, off to a war that still exists, even if no one talks about it anymore. And although it sounds old-fashioned, the women stick together. We take each other’s children and make each other dinner. I take Remy’s daughter to story hour and to the park and when she goes to Sam’s Club, she brings over a hunk of Gouda cheese, a box of whole-grain crackers, or a package of sprouted tofu. Last fall, I woke up one day to an ambulance in Remy’s driveway and watched from the window as they loaded her son in the back. Cowering in my kitchen, I sent Remy a text, asking if I could help, while Lisa strode across both of our lawns, found the keys to Remy’s minivan, and drove Remy’s four other children to school. This is what military wives do for each other. This is what neighbors do for each other. And this sounds an awful lot like friendship to me.

At noon today, I picked the last of the lettuce from my garden to make a salad for tonight. A little later, Oliver and I will go to see the Camp Lejeune High School production of “Godspell,” in which Remy’s oldest son will be wonderful as Jesus. Teenage voices will fill an auditorium and we will marvel at how well they did, how many lines they had to memorize. Later, when the temperature drops, neighbors who feel like friends will gather on our yard and eat. There will be two grills in Remy’s driveway, a front door propped open, salad dressing in mason jars, and a tub full of soda and beer and juice boxes. Camp chairs will be set up and maybe a tent. Kids will ride on bikes and scooters and push each other on the tire swing. They will leave most of their dinner on their plates but then come back for cheesecake and berries. Finally, I will take my own tired boys into the house and get them into the shower. They will ask for toast, and I will get out the butter, the cinnamon and the sugar. Later still, I will go for a walk and see a raccoon run behind a dumpster and into the woods. He will be running low, his back hunched against something worrisome that might happen, and I will find a certain kinship with him. I will realize that I too am a scavenger, finding friendship in the most unlikely of places.

Just Write.

I can hear the rhythmic cadence–the thunkthunkthunk of their bodies as they twist and flip on the trampoline, airborne. Snow now melted, it’s time to catch the wind, time to hurl into weightlessness.

Miss D.’s friend Hannah is tentative, hanging around the edges and taking shallow, cautious jumps while D. and M. pump their coltish legs, seeking higher ground.

Miss M. scampers in from the backyard, grabs her father’s giant inflatable exercise ball and hustles back outside with it. He probably wouldn’t be pleased with this development, but I allow it. If the damn thing pops, it pops. It’s that kind of day. The squeals and giggles and thunkthunkthunk are far more precious.

I outline a plan for the garden. It’s silly to do this–I should just go to the garden store and pick out what looks green and promising. And hearty. Hearty is good in Colorado springtime, when things change on a dime. I crave order, so I list: 2 tomato plants, 2 cucumber, 3 lettuce (probably a mistake this early), snap peas, carrots, radishes that only I will eat. Basil. Lots of basil, because in summer, Kitchen Counter Pasta happens.

Reminder: plant mint in a separate container. I look out the window at the garden; damned if there isn’t mint growing back–the only flash of green in an otherwise brittle landscape. Mint is not a quitter.

I ponder chiles. Do I dare grow Thai bird, or should I stick with jalapeno? Is it a sad point in your life when growing something in your backyard qualifies as daring?

The sliding door whacks open with force–has to be D. I turn around and there she stands, stricken.

“What, Bun? Hey–what is it?”

“Mom, I have blood on the back of my shirt.”

“Jesus! Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Who is bleeding?” I’m off the chair now, motoring towards her.

She holds up a hand. (Dear God, the hand. I’m getting it with stunning regularity now.)

“No, mom.” Her eyes roll around in her head and then turn to rivers. “It’s the bunnies. The babies. I tripped catching the ball and I fell and landed on one. They’re dead. All of them. I couldn’t see them in the yard because the grass isn’t green yet. When I landed on it, it kind of…exploded.”

*******

*******

Clothes are changed. Children are ordered, “Inside. Now!”

My daughter is eerily stoic, almost calm. This is my drama child, the child who howls at the moon over a stubbed toe. I pour her a glass of ice water, deliver it, lightly run my fingers through her hair.

“Hey. You okay?”

She gives me the dead fish eye but doesn’t brush my hand away. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

I order three girls to scrub their hands and parcel out sympathy Goldfish crackers. I lurk in a corner, peering into the den, checking the emotional temperature in the room. And then I realize.

Hannah doesn’t know about the bunnies. Miss M. doesn’t know about the bunnies. Those girls are fine–aces, even. Somehow, my older daughter contained this, locked it somewhere deep and far away from little sisters and cautious friends.

I drag out the snow shovel that I vowed I was done with until next winter and haul it to the backyard. Three fluffy, softball-sized bodies plunk into a garbage bag. Spring is not kind in Colorado. Especially to baby bunnies who get served up hard frost instead of green grass.

Later, over a stiff drink and the Kentucky Derby, I tell my husband.

“Holy crap,” he says, palming his forehead. “Just………”

“I know.”

Nothing is more welcome than distraction via horses.

Derby day is big here, and I’ve researched, made my choices, placed my bets. In this area of sportsmanship, my husband defers to me. In seven years, I’ve hit two trifectas and two exactas. Still, I’m nothing like Gramma Rhetta, who could pick the winning horse just by eyeballing the contenders as they walked to the gate. Gramma was spooky good. It makes me happy though, that I inherited some of her spooky. Just a little. But I’ll take it.

The race always passes in a flash. I holler and jump up and down and forget I have a bourbon in my hand so it sloshes onto the couch.

Two of my horses win and show. But the horse that places, Golden Soul, comes from nowhere. When I placed my bets, that horse was at 50-1 odds. He wasn’t mentioned as a contender–mentioned at all, even. A ghost horse, underestimated, overlooked.

Watching the media coverage during the aftermath, I become agitated.

“Garggh!” I yell. “I get it–Orb won, but he was supposed to win, so shut up already! I want to hear about that horse. How did that horse grind it out on a track that’s running like freaking gruel and do something nobody expected? That horse wanted it. That horse has chops. That’s a tough little bastard.”

My husband gives me a lopsided grin.

“I know.”

“I know you know!” I say. “Stupid media clowns. They don’t understand anything.” I launch off the couch and stalk upstairs.

“Call me down when they decide to tell a real story.”

Hello, Readers! Follow the yellow brick road to Jen’s post! You won’t be sorry! Thank you, Momalom gals, for all of your support. Love you more than Google. xoxo

A quick entry in MamaKat’s Writing Workshop today answering the prompt: Share something you think is funny.

Thanks to my friend Suzicate, who read my post about the mysterious yoo-hoo bird and took action. The girl actually Googled “yoo hoo bird,” which is awesome. Due to her efforts, I now know that we have a Black Capped Chickadee in our midst. Intrigued, I googled it and stumbled upon this hilarious website, which phonetically attempts to mimic bird calls, so weirdos like me who are obsessed with some random bird can scan the possibilities. Some of these bird calls are hilarious!

Example: American Bitterns make this call: gulp-a-pump; woonk-a-chunk.  Sounds like electro-pop music, does it not?

Some warbles are downright educational, too. For instance, I’m sure that in a former life I was a Barred Owl. The proof is in the bird call: who-cooks-for-you; who-cooks-for-you-all…

Freaky, right?

If you are bored today and need a giggle, or if you are dying to know which bird you were in a past life, you should check it out. It will make you smile, I promise.

I hope you readers had a good May Day? I’d love to say that I did, but the reason I had so much time to waste on bird-call websites yesterday was because it snowed like crazy. On May 1st.

How can a girl dance around a Maypole when she’s decked out in mukluks and a parka?

Shhh. I’m going to whisper so I don’t curse myself, so lean in close, readers.

*I think I might be able to retire the snow shovels to the corner of the garage. At last. Maybe.*

I’m hopeful, because after the wintry weather early in the week, Mother Nature decided to quit being a jerkwad and send some sunny skies this way.  Once the snow melted, I sniffed the air and detected promising signs that spring might, at last, be coming to the square dance.

~ I saw three very small, very fluffy baby bunnies scampering in the backyard. I hoped the girls wouldn’t insist on naming them, because I’ll never be able to get them straight. I had enough trouble keeping track of Peanut Butter last year.

~ grass that’s ditching the gunmetal gray look and rockin’ a more verdant color.

~ a noisy robin on a branch, plumper than pudding. Honestly, I thought the branch was going to snap on Miss Fatty. I kinda lingered, because I am mean.

~ I took a walk around the lake and heard the first yoo-hoo bird of the season. I have no idea what the official name of this bird is, but Mama and I have always called it the yoo-hoo bird. I’ll try to explain and if any of you own an aviary, maybe you can tell me what it is. The call of this bird is a sharp, high pitched whistle–and it seriously sounds like that bird is calling “yoo-hoo!”  Many times, but not always, the yoo-hoo bird lets loose right after the chirp of a meadowlark, almost like an answer. Whenever I hear those two feathered guys having a conversation, it makes me grin. It’s a harbinger of spring.

~finding asparagus that doesn’t look like rat-bait at the grocery store. Asparagus that’s fairly snappy and fresh, actually. I promptly invited Mama and Daddy up for Sunday lunch and we feasted on “un-ratty” asparagus salad. It was just the thing. A mouthful of spring and full of glorious contrast: crisp asparagus, tender mushrooms, sharp Parmesan and lively pistachios. Even Daddy-o, staunch lover of the iceberg-wedge, declared it delicious.  I may have to make it again Wednesday, just to cheer my soul, because…

**Breaking News**:  we are due for a huge cool-down on Wednesday with possible wet sn…I won’t even say it. Swear Jar!  Condolence cards are now being accepted.

But no matter (unless it snows buckets and then I will unleash my fury on the universe). Spring came this weekend, and we listened.

Raw Asparagus, Mushroom and Parsley Salad

recipe by Sara Moulton

serves 4

Kosher salt and black pepper

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1 1/2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1/2 pound asparagus, tough stems trimmed and discarded

1 cup flat-leaf parsley leaves

4 ounces white button mushrooms, thinly sliced

1/3 cup pistachios

1 ounce shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

In a big bowl, combine a generous pinch of salt, some grinds of black pepper and the lemon juice. When the salt is dissolved, whisk in the olive oil. Set aside.

Slice the asparagus, a few stalks at a time, thinly and on a diagonal to create oblong slices. Add asparagus to the bowl along with the parsley leaves and toss.

Add the sliced mushrooms and pistachios. Toss.

Divide the salad among 4 serving plates and top with shaves of cheese.

ps: People who avoid asparagus because of the skunk-piss factor, take heart! I–a fellow skunk–had very little problem with asparagus in the raw form. Is there something about cooking asparagus that renders your urine like something out of a polecat?

pps: 2 questions for you today…1. WTF is the yoo-hoo bird?  2. Is raw asparagus the answer?

Sending you love and white light this week. Miss M. and a few other renegade first-graders are performing in the talent show this week, which should provide stunning hilarity.  We also have a parent meeting/orientation at the (holymoly) middle school for D., and D.’s art show to attend (which I predict will result in yet again *swear jar-ing* her over, but hey, it’s like the Oscars. It’s an honor to be in contention, ja?

Hahahaha.  As if.  Y’all know I’ll be hissing like a rattlesnake if she loses. Mama Bear strikes again. :)