Wha Dis Day, Ees-tur?

Nono, not dress. Jus diaper. No dress. Itch, dress. Nooonoo! Not socks! I...take...off...(grunt)...socks... Nononono! No shoes! Socks stuck. Oh, shoes shiny! Oh shoes pretty! No, no, no hairbrush! Hairbrush hurt!!! Nono pigtails! I pull pigtails. Oh pigtail pull hurt. Nono bows I run away haha! You catch me. Bows. I pull bows out. Oh...

Go outside? OK! Outside! I see bug! I get bug I eat bug....egg? What egg you say, Daddy? Where egg? Oooh, in plant! I see egg! Look, Daddy, I see egg! I get egg. Pur-pul. Pur-pul egg. Egg no pur-pul!! Egg white! Haha! Ooh, egg shake! Thing in egg! Daddy open egg...beans in egg! Egg have beans? Ooh, bean taste like bu-Nana! Egg have beans taste like bu-Nana? noooo...oooh, bean taste like pi-nappel! Bean taste like pi-nappel? Nooo, bean taste like gween. Give to dog. No like gween bean. Oh, dis gween bean taste pear! Me like pear! I confused. I sit in grass take off shoe.

What say Mommy, more egg? What dat Big Purse, Mommy? Have big handle no top. Put egg in Big Purse? Okay, Mommy. Look, Mommy, I find egg. It lellow. Shake, have beans? put in Big Purse. Other egg! Gween! Shake, put in Big Purse.

I mix up...no egg here yesSirDay. Why egg, Daddy? Bunny? Bunny have egg? Silly Daddy! Bunny not got egg! Chicken got egg! No bunny, Daddy! Chicken got egg lellow inside! No beans! Daddy silly. Silly goose Daddy. I go neck-store. Pick up eggs. Put in Big Purse. What say Mommy? Bunny not put egg neck-store? Why Mommy Bunny put eggs my grass not neck-store?

Nooooo I not hold big purse, Mommy. I tired. I tired pick up egg shake put in big purse. Noooo not shiny box! Mommy got shiny little box. Put on Mommy eye. Say look here sweetie. Say cheese. I no got cheese? Got eggs. Beans inside egg. Bunny have egg. Egg put in Big Purse. Wear dress. Shoes. I so tired. I confused. Daddy, I no smile. I tired. Daddy, uppies me. Daddy shoulder. I tired, Daddy warm...I go nap...nigh-nigh...Mommy shiny box go click...nigh-nigh.

Home Curling, a How-to-Guide

The Winter Olympics are in full swing, and in between criticizing the figure skaters' outfits and shivering, I have become obsessed with the sport of "curling". Probably because one of the Canadian Curlers, Kristie Moore, is pregnant. And, with decades of experience as a Maternity Educator under my belt, I have absolutely no idea how I would have reacted if one of my pregnant clients had asked what I thought about her participation in the Olympics. As a Curler. Although I am (technically) retired, I could be called off the bench at any time; and the issue could conceivably (ha! conceivably! Maternity Educator humor!) come up in the future...so I am getting prepared.

Now, curling, as far as I can tell, involves sweeping, and heaving a big rock down the ice. There is a "hog line" at each end, and a big target beyond each hog line. The participants wear Teflon shoes. They shout stuff while sliding around.

Let's break this down. Sweeping is probably not dangerous for pregnant women; who have been known to be at home, barefoot and pregnant, probably sweeping, for millennia. Targets pose no clear danger, either. They are the best places to find baby gates, and cheap-but-designer infant clothes. I just got my granddaughter a really cute navy and pink retro peasant top and leggings at Target, and they were 30% off. Also, although Teflon has been linked to Alzheimer's, I don't think Teflon is inherently dangerous during pregnancy. Target has a fine selection of Teflon cookware. So I would let this issue, um, slide.

Now, as far as heaving heavy stones. A little research turned up the fact that the stones are granite, as featured on the counter tops in The Kitchens of the Martha Stewart Home Collection. As long as the granite is well-sealed, experts agree there is no health threat. Most expectant mothers have had some experience with heaving before the 12th week of pregnancy, so that's a non-issue; however, hydration must be carefully monitored, and dehydration - should it occur - must be addressed immediately.

Shouting is benign, as it is common in pregnancy, and even more common in childbirth.

So I'm left to ponder the "hog line." I am not a fan of the "rare pork" en vogue at your finer restaurants. Especially for pregnant women. In fact, I am not in favor of pork at all; but I try not to impose my dietary views on others. And living in the country, we see some wild hogs that look pretty mean. I would not advise tangling with them, either.

But, clearly, I can't see the "Big Curling Picture" by examining all these little pieces. So I have constructed a Home Curling Course to get a real feel for the physical demands of the sport, and how they could affect pregnancy. You might want to give it a try, yourself. So, here's how:

First, if you have carpet in your living room, you must remove it and install hardwoods. Or bamboo, which is much more eco-friendly and renewable. Then get the Murphy's Oil Soap and dilute it 1:1...not that 1:16 as recommended on the label. You want the wood good and slippery. Then create Targets at either end of the room. I used the symbol from Target plastic bags. I like to recycle. You probably won't be able to tape them to the slick floor, so you'll need a few brads, or a heavy-duty staple gun.

Next, create your Hog Lines. I didn't have any hogs, or pork (again, I don't mean to impose my dietary views) so I used the dogs. They were, as usual, asleep. I shoved one in front of each Target. I don't think they even noticed, because the floor was so slippery.

You will need Teflon shoes. You can either strap an upside-down Teflon griddle to each foot, or use the old Irish trick of duct-taping your feet. (I am not making this up. I learned it on Wikipedia.)

Get a broom.

And then, a big granite rock. I have a granite mortar and pestle that I use to grind cardamom pods for Swedish coffee bread. I intended to use it for the rock, but decided against it for sanitary reasons...I didn't really want Murphy's Oil Soap in the next batch of coffee bread. I couldn't find any other flat-bottomed granite, so I had to improvise...

AHA! the Roomba! It looks just like that granite thing, and it is self-propelled. Which is a blessing when you don't have any teammates to heave the opening stone. (And you thought Roombas were just for amusing cats!)

Now, get a fanny pack, fill it with water balloons, and strap it around your stomach. If you don't feel suitably weighed down, you might need two fanny packs full of water balloons. (PLEASE NOTE! IF YOU ARE AUSTRALIAN, SKIP THIS STEP!!! AND I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR A WORD ABOUT IT!!!)

To play:

Starting at the far dog line, turn on the Roomba. Look disappointed when it flashes "replace batteries". Replace batteries. Look disappointed when nothing happens. Put on your reading glasses, notice that the batteries are backwards and re-install. Turn on the Roomba. Without tripping over first dog, gently sweep the gyrating Roomba back in line, in the direction of the far Target. Shout something. Sweep curious cats out of the way. Shout something. Sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something, sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something...face the Roomba while sliding backward toward second dog line, shout something colorful while tripping over the second dog and landing on the Target. Clean up mess from ruptured water balloons.

The International Olympic Committee has determined that curling is not dangerous for pregnant women. I concur, with a caveat. Dogs should be removed from the field before play begins.

DISCLAIMER: Although I am a Maternity Expert, and I think that curling during pregnancy is fine in moderation, other Maternity Experts disagree. Please consult your personal Health Care Team for their views on curling during pregnancy. Writer denies responsibility for any injuries sustained while tripping over dogs, wearing fanny packs backwards or heaving mortars and pestles; illness from consuming pork, or shock from improperly wired Roombas.

Down and Out in Oxford, Alabama

I am a Road Warrior. The road I battle is I-20, between Atlanta, GA and Birmingham, AL. A lot of this road is national forest. A lot of it is what we called, when I pursued Urban Studies in college, "hinterland". Which means "void of cell phone towers, radio stations and clean restrooms; yet offering a variety of fireworks superstores".

I have driven this stretch of I-20, in one direction or another, on a daily basis for nearly five years. I am intimate with mile markers. Some of them bring back fond memories, like my friendly discussion with the state trooper who insisted I was going 81 mph at Mile Marker 195. In fact, I was going 74 mph. But I WAS D.I.S.C...(Driving In Sports Car) so I understand why he assumed that it was me, not the silver 1998 Honda Civic in front of me, kicking it around the semi. Billy the Trooper let me go with a warning. I am not sure whether that had anything to do with my snarling, teeth-baring canine co-pilot...but now I know where Billy camps out; and I always wave.

So last Friday was a routine trip in the making. I was to arrive in Atlanta in the early evening, in time to retrieve my mother from a doctor's appointment downtown. I left Birmingham around 2 PM, for my two-plus hour drive. It was raining, and cold. But I have heated seats, and the Audi tt has Quattro traction. Which means that by some kind of physics or magic, it sticks to the ground in the rain. It works - I've yet to go airborne.

Fifty miles out of Birmingham, I saw trouble ahead. Well, I kind of saw it...the aura of flashing lights way on up there; and brake lights for a mile or so. Let me just admit here, I got kicked out of Girl Scouts for scaring the Brownies on a camp out. It was by design. I was a lousy Girl Scout, and I didn't give a half a flip about badges. BUT I did learn a bit about that "be prepared" stuff...so I had a Reader's Digest AND my reading glasses in the front seat. I shut down the ignition, and the headlights; donned the glasses and read for an hour. And then...the traffic started to move.

Cranked up the tt, and....zzzzzzzz....blink...blink....zzzzz.

Nothing.

A. Complete. Electrical. Meltdown.

It was not the first time I had been through this with my Little German Friend. My Cute-But-Bratty transportation has always had "issues".

Called 911. Connected to the State Patrol. Alabama State Patrol. Where are you? Mile Marker 184 eastbound...just outside of Oxford, Alabama. Where is your car? In the left lane...GET OUT OF YOUR CAR! STAND IN THE CENTER OF THE MEDIAN! Help is on the way!

It was pouring rain. The median was a lake. I was wearing suede shoes. My mother was expecting me to pick her up...but help was on the way!

I think that every man, woman and child driving by this woman in suede shoes, shivering in the middle of a soggy median just outside of Oxford, Alabama, offered to help. But I informed them that "help is on the way"; and sent them on their way.

Until the truck full of Alabama Department of Transportation employees stopped by, blocked traffic, moved my bratty vehicle to the right shoulder, and compustered about getting it started again.

None of them had ever driven a stick shift. But they HAD heard that you could push a car with manual transmission real fast, and "throw" it into gear. So they decided to push it BACKWARDS until they could "throw" it in reverse...I was numb, physically and mentally at this point. They could have said they were bringing in a Chinook helicopter and lifting the damn thing 40 feet in the air; then dropping it to "jar" it into reality. And I would have said, "OK." But I still managed to think,

"What could possibly go wrong here?"

As the six Burly Men got into position to push the tt backwards on the right shoulder...this was now 2 hours after the initial "failure" and there was no Alabama State Patrol to speak of on the scene (even after 2 more phone calls) and I was soaked to the bone and my mother was surely wondering where I was (yes, I called, but my parents don't leave their cell phones on, they might lose their charge)...a TOW TRUCK appeared! Hallelujah, a tow truck! I was certain that a "jump" would restore the sanity of the tt. I could reset the electrical system, and be on my way! And no one would have to push my car backwards to get it "jumped" into reverse!

Oh, happy day, the tow truck guy, Travis, emerged.

But he didn't have jumper cables.

He could, however, tow me to Daddy's shop, a mile away. They could jump me there. Super duper...He loaded the tt on the wrecker, and told me to get in the truck. Which I did. But I had to remove his GUN from the passenger seat to sit down.

Hello, I had to move his

GUN.

Which I did...

And he towed me 1 mile to the shop, got the jumper cables, opened the hood, looked around, opened the TRUNK, looked around, at which point I asked him what he was looking for, told me that he "can't find the battery" and I told him it was under the thing that said "BATTERY COVER" in the front of the car, jumped the sporty-yet-petulant vehicle; sending it into "safe" mode, which allowed me to program it with the "secret code" that resets its bad self....and said that his daddy, who owned the shop, wanted $150 for their service.

I pulled out a credit card. They didn't take credit cards.

I pulled out a check book. They didn't take checks.

I had $105 in cash. The service provided, miraculously, now cost $105.

Called the parents at home, to leave a message about my inability to retrieve my mother; but they ANSWERED, because they got an earlier appointment. And they were home and done and eating crockpot pork tenderloin; and my services were not necessary after all.

Drove back to Birmingham. Thankful for my steam shower. And the fireplace, and fuzzy socks. And I will never view mile marker 184 quite the same way again.

Dear National Weather Service...

Dear National Weather Service,

I am writing because I believe a terrible mistake has been made. I live in the Deep South. I say ma'am, and y'all. I eat grits, and fried okra. People like me do not have heating blocks for our car engines. We don't wear gloves, except for those cute fingerless ones that make us look like refugees from the Oliver Twist Orphanage. And our "winter coat" is a stylin' leather jacket, with a silk scarf around our neck for a Stacy and Clinton "pop of color". We close all non-essential businesses, government offices and Starbucks if we have snow flurries.

So imagine my surprise, when today it was so cold that the plastic cover on the very expensive electronic key to my German sports car cracked. Hello, they have Alps and stuff in Germany. They know cold. Those expensive electronic key covers are engineered to withstand Alp Cold, but couldn't handle the Arctic Blast clearly misdirected at we gloveless souls.

As The National Weather Service, I believe it is incumbent upon you to rectify this situation, and return our typical "sweater weather". Certainly, some jurisdiction that thrives on ice fishing and...umm...slalom stuff, wants its weather back.

(It has occurred to me that there could be a more sinister explanation for this unpleasantness. Like, perhaps, some terrorist types have developed Weapons of Mass Refrigeration. Binary compounds, benign on their own, but bone-chilling in combination. And possibly these FreezeMongers managed to worm their way into the country on a flight from Siberia to Atlanta; then released their horror somewhere above Villa Rica. In which case, I'm sure, an investigation is ongoing. I really don't want to compromise National Security. I just want to feel my fingers again.)

So, please, National Weather Service, look into the possible misdeployment of Jack Frost. He is not welcome here, among grits and okra eaters. And the people who love him - those people who strap two-by-fours to their feet and slide down mountains - must be mourning his absence. It's a new year, and a fresh start. Let's start by putting the weather back where it belongs.

Thanks (But No Thanks,) for the Memories, Cindy-Lou Who!

I didn't watch Grinchy at all this season...
I missed it on TV; and the OTHER reason
Is that my copy's a tape, for an old television.
Not a big, fancy set that views tapes with derision.

Nonetheless, I'm remembering that old green meanie
Who swiped all the goodies from Cindy, so teeny.
The child stood up to him, Cindy was tough.
And calm, in a crisis - he was taking her stuff!
(Or possibly colorblind, I don't know...
She didn't note "Santa" had a sickly green glow.)

But Cindy was stylin' in her nightgown so pink,
And charmed our green goblin, when she asked for a drink.
Antennae bobbing atop her blond head,
She accepted the water and went back to bed.

My question right here is, where was her mother?
Didn't she hear them addressing each other?
I guess she was tired from stuffing that hen.
Or perhaps, she consumed too much Who Brew, again.
(Daddy was also not to be found.
But rumors of Daddy's "diversions" abound.)

Whatever the case, whatever the reason,
After the Grinching, Whos welcomed the season.
Their singing attracted the green guy himself,
Who returned all the presents, like a good Christmas elf.
(I admit here, I have some food poisoning fright...
Remember, the roast beast sat out all night.)

"The Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!"
Which sounds kinda scary, in a heart attack way.


Hmmm.

I think I'll be getting a "Grinch" DVD.
I like it much better when it's not told by me.

Are you Simple-Minded? Take Our Simple Test!

The Kitties and I have been on hiatus; moving all the Good Stuff from House A to House B, the Mediocre Stuff from House A to Goodwill, and the Not-So-Good Stuff (along with the I-Don't-Feel-Like-Dealing-With-This Stuff) to the curb. While simultaneously staging House A for sale and driving back and forth across two states from House A to House B looking for our stuff, because we can't remember if it is at House A or B; or whether we took it to Goodwill, or whether we just imagined that we ever had it.

So is it any surprise that I am currently simple-minded? That's the accusation, at any rate.

This morning, I was sharing a dream I had with a group of friends. I dreamed that I was with these same friends, at a zoo. Someone at the B&B where we were all staying had lost a banana python. We found the banana python at the zoo, under an alarm clock. It was coiled up, and one of us picked it up to take back to the B&B.

My interpretation of that dream was that I wanted our group of friends to go back to Bali (we traveled there together in 2001) and revisit the zoo where the giant banana python lives. I am very fond of that banana python. She is about 13 feet long, and beautiful. And she has her own display area, where people can pose with her draped around them, for photos. I swear, I have seen that banana python smile. And, although I have made many pilgrimages to Indonesia, it has been quite a while since the last one. Seemed like a pretty straight-forward dream to me.

That's when my dear friend, Professor and Certified Literary Critic, "G", informed me that there was much more to it. Snakes in dreams, said G, are always sexual representations. (She, being a Professor and Certified Literary Critic in possession of Colorful Vocabulary elaborated in detail that would shock The Kitties. So I'll let you use your imagination.) I protested, because I was sure I really want to go to Bali and see the real banana python. And G told me that I was being simple-minded; if I wrote a paper about my own interpretation of my own dream for her I would flat-out fail her class.

So I have decided to sharpen my skills in the realm of Real-But-Hidden-Meaning; and I developed this test, as a Public Service:

1. "This little piggy went to market" is

a) a story about piglets
b) a simple technique to count Baby's toes
c) a tale of lust (Piggy 1 used "market" as a euphemysm for brothel), repression (Piggy 2 was forced to stay home against her will), gluttony (the roast beef) anorexia (no roast beef) and Freudian toilet-training issues (wee, wee, wee all the way home.)

2. The Geiko Gecko is

a)cute
b)a clever marketing tool
c)small and green. He is obviously green with envy, and has a clear case of "little man" syndrome. So he talks with that funny accent to convince himself and those around him that he is more special than they are.

3. Popsicles are:

a)sugar water on a stick
b)a waste of money
c)come on, do I have to explain EVERYTHING to you?

If you answered mostly "a", you just want to go to Bali to see the banana python. Mostly "b", you don't care what your results are anyway. And mostly "c"...well you got that A+ in Lit Crit in the bag. And I can recommend a good therapist.

Almost Giddy...Up!

I had a rocking horse. 1950's vintage, plastic with a nylon tail. My horse was well-loved; the springs needed to be replaced every six months. Daddy and I went together to Sears on a regular basis to buy rocking horse springs.

Our kids had a rocking horse. Circa 1980; springs, but no nylon tail. 100% palomino plastic...perhaps nylon tails posed some heretofore unknown risks to small children, and were discontinued between generations. When presented with this rocking horse, one memorable Christmas, we asked Son One if he liked it. His two-year-old response: "Be Fine." And BeFine, the horse, became a treasured family member.

BeFine also required lots of springs during his tenure. He went on to greener pastures with Nephew and Niece. Don't know exactly where BeFine is now...but I suspect he would not pass muster with today's parents or The Federal Government Rocking Horse Czar. Springs could pinch tiny fingers. Springs have probably been discontinued.

Fast forward to present: We have "real" horses. Living, breathing and slobbering equines in the back yard. Yet, I was determined that the Most Fabulous GrandBaby In The World should have a pretend rocking horse.

These days, when you shop for a rocking horse on line, you find yourself in the company of "Rocking Horse Experts" who ask a lot of questions (how tall is your granddaughter? Is she walking? Does she prefer blondes or brunettes?) and make Rocking Horse Recommendations based on your feedback. Said grandbaby is too big for "baby" rockers; but a bit young for "toddler" horses. Her height, however, throws her directly into the "toddler" camp. So, I bought a "toddler" horse.

It wasn't hard to assemble; aside from my little meltdown when it wouldn't whinny or gallop. A call to The Rocking Horse Experts assured me, correctly, that it needed only a Double A battery in the depths of its belly to resolve those issues.

Last evening I delivered the whinnying, galloping soft-n-fluffy spring-free toddler horse to The Most Fabulous GrandBaby in the World. She was semi-delighted; but confused. Horsey looked a lot like her two dogs, and she was not allowed to sit on top of them...yet people were clearly encouraging her to sit on this new arrival. And she has recently learned to "give kisses." She was strongly advised to "kiss the horsey"; which she did overandoverandoverandover again. Cute, but probably not a whole lot of fun. Eventually, she decided to walk around, dragging the rocking horse by a handle, and kissing it periodically. I'm not quite sure if she thought that was fun.

Ahh, artificial horses. They don't need apples or carrots or hay; and they don't smell. They are properly sized for users. They whinny and gallop at the touch of a button.

I hope no one ever invents artificial grandmas.