Uhhhhh… December 31, 2006

I saw the video below a while ago, emailed to me by my clearly disturbed friend J, and I thought to myself, oh, this will definitely have to be put in my blog. But I want to give myself some time so I can say something funny about it.

And time passes on.

Well, I decided today was the day. And this morning, I sat down to write what I thought would be an easy post. In the time it has taken me to try to think of something to say about the video below, I have rescued a tea strainer from play-doh hell, talked to Brassy Girl on the phone, taken the kids for a drive through the car wash at the gas station, returned a nursing shawl to my sister in law, went to a new deli only to discover that it appears to be run by the kind of people who probably don’t have permits to carry the concealed weapons I suspect them of having, and I also walked around all of Lowe’s looking for the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser because Little No Limit had trouble distinguishing between the easel and wall:

Whee!

I have tried many times to write about the video below, and I am officially throwing in the towel. Every time I watch it, I am rendered speechless. Much like the pi it praises, it is beyond words.

Seriously.

Just when you think it can’t POSSIBLY get any weirder, they throw in a rap:

See you in the new year!

Get Back Thee, Chip-n-Dale December 31, 2006

Well, it may be 11 in the evening, but I am here and I am posting to my blog, because I am a woman of my word. I said I would post every day of the 12 days of Christmas, and here I am.

Why did I take so long, you may ask? Today was (is) The Boy’s birthday. He is 4 years old. This means that four years ago, I was almost 90 pounds heavier, with several stitches around the abdomen area and at this particular moment, probably just starting to feel sensation in my fingers and toes and begging for someone to please get some jell-o (which, in case you didn’t know, is NOT vegan. Trust me, you don’t want to know how gelatin is made).

If I was the kind of person who planned things, I would have written something to post to my blog yesterday and then had no worries. Incidentally, if I was the kind of person who planned things, I might also have planned something for The Boy’s birthday.

Let’s face it, anyone who is born in or around Christmastime (say, November through February) gets slightly shafted. Sorry, but it happens.

Fortunately for The Boy, at least his mommy is spontaneous.

This morning, The Boy’s Nana and Papa (my Mother-In-Law and Father-In-Law) stopped by to wish him a Happy Birthday. They said, “Let’s take him out for breakfast!” I said, “Where?” They said, “How about (dun-dun-duuuuuuuuun) The Disneyland Character Breakfast!”

I immediately said, “Uh, no. We need to go somewhere local, you know, something low key.” Oh, my sweet Mother-in-Law, I just totally walked all over her grand idea, and there I was, getting The Boy’s sweater, and extra diapers for Little No Limit, thinking to myself, “why don’t I want to go to Disney? I love Disneyland? But it’s a 40 minute drive… and since it’s the holidays, it’ll be crowded… and the character breakfast will be really crowded… but what are you doing today that’s so pressing?” I volleyed back and forth between my sanity versus my son and my in-laws’ happiness and decided that my sanity was questionable anyways.

“You know, I don’t know why I said no—sure, let’s go to the Disney breakfast!”

Now, before anyone thinks we actually went to Disneyland, that is not the case. There are a couple breakfasts you can go to that do not require park attendance. We went to the character brunch at the Disneyland Grand Californian Hotel’s Storyteller’s Café. The theme to this particular hotel is ‘Yosemite.’ It’s all about rustic cabins and lodges and the great—or grand, as the case may be—outdoors of California. So the Storyteller’s Café features outdoorsy characters—Brer Bear, Chip and Dale, Brother Bear characters, et al.

We arrived, promptly gave them our names, and informed them of The Boy’s fourth birthday. In true Disneyland fashion, they gave him a special pin. We enjoyed the brunch, and by “we” I mean me, Mother in Law, Father in Law, and The Boy.

It turns out Little No Limit has a slightly concerning aversion to largish animals, such as (and I’m just randomly coming up with this example) people dressed up as Disney animal characters. When Brother Bear walked up to wish The Boy a Happy Birthday, Little No Limit pointed at him and screamed. I mean, screamed. The kind that could be heard about the clanging of the dude making the omelettes 15 feet from us, and above the conversations of the 100+ maximum occupancy number of people and children in the restaurant.

She continued in this fashion throughout the rest of breakfast. If any character came near us, as in, to any tables within our vicinity, she said something along the lines of “AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” and at one point, she literally leapt off her chair, into my lap, and buried her face in my shirt. I almost feel bad admitting this (because I’m certain it was traumatizing for her), but I thought it was really really funny. You should have seen these characters. They were magnetized to her or something, probably because they had been told it was a birthday table, or maybe they’re just that good at making sure every table gets equal attention (I mean, this is Disneyland), but they were stopping by every 5-10 minutes, and Little No Limit FREAKED OUT EVERY SINGLE TIME. And their reactions were priceless. Lots of doubles takes and scurrying aways.

Halfway through the breakfast/brunch, I made the discovery that if I covered her eyes when they went by, she was fine, so I started doing this. However, at one point, a mistaken Chip (or Dale) took me to be playing a game of Peek-a-Boo and tried to do the same, and I had to say, “No, she’s really scared of you, I’m sorry, but, can you please just go on to the next table?”

Breakfast ended on a positive note, though, with the Disney staff singing a ‘Zippity Doo Da” version of Happy Birthday and presenting The Boy with his very own Mouse Ears-shaped chocolate mousse. Post-breakfast, we strolled Downtown Disney, threw coins in the fountain, ate kettle corn, and then headed home. As I was driving home, I was disappointed in myself for not having any further plans to celebrate The Boy’s birthday, so I called my two sisters-in-law and invited them and their families over for dinner. I also called my friend, J, whose daughters are my children’s best friends, but she was celebrating a belated Christmas with her family today and couldn’t make it. When I got home, I cleaned the house, pulled out all the leftover party favors from birthday parties past (thanks heavens I’m a packrat), and baked a cake. I even pulled out some cake stencils. Here’s a picture (to be fair, this is the first birthday cake I have ever made for my kids–and my first time using said cake stencils).

Vegan Chocolate Cake. Extremely tasty. Served with ice cream (to the non-Husbands) and raspberries.

One of the gifts The Boy received was a Buzz Lightyear Voice Changer:

Sweet!

My mom mailed it from the FL. This is one amazing toy. You speak into it and it changes your voice into either a spaceman, alien, or robot voice. If you have ever seen Grandma’s Boy, then you might understand why I kept using this toy to say in the robot voice, “Adios, turd nuggets.” (Well, even if you haven’t seen this movie, it’s still a funny thing to say. Assuming you’re immature. Like me.)

Anyways… the evening, and Talladega Nights, are now both over. I am the only one awake in the house. My son is out cold, having danced around the house all evening saying, “it’s my birthday!” and “cake!” Husband is dead asleep too, having come home from work to a house full of family and a birthday party he didn’t know was going to take place when he left this morning. And Little No Limit is thankfully asleep, having finally calmed down from her traumatizing day with the Disney characters.

As for me, I’m having a beer.

(Come on—I started this morning with no plans at all for his birthday and finished the day with two pseudo-parties. AND I got my post in for the day. WHOO-HOO! There’s a party over here! A party over there! Wave your hands in the air, shake your derriere!)

Whoop! There it is!

At the End of the Day, You’re Another Day Older December 29, 2006

Welcome to my Fifth Day of Christmas post. This posting every day thing is pretty exciting.

One of the gifts my husband got me this Christmas was the book, Wicked. We have tickets to see the musical in a couple months, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. The last musical I attended was Les Miserables and it was almost 2 years ago. I just now realized it had been that long. Wow. That is far too much time. I love musicals. Pre-children, I went to see them all the time. I love them, the singing, the dancing, the belting out at the moment of death sequences. Yes, it’s all good, especially when Mr. Hasselhoff is involved (please at least watch from the 2:20 to 2:30 time mark):

I think David Hasselhoff embodies all that is musical – a little bit of cheese, an unnecessary exhibition of, ahem, drama, and a whole lotta singing. I’ve loved musicals from the get go and I’ve noticed there are certain kinds of people who like them. Here are three of them:

Annoying Singing Sensation (ASS) –Whatever you have to say, this person somehow knows a song lyric that they can belt out in answer to you. Often found in high school drama clubs, schools for the arts, and the Rocky Horror Picture showing at midnight in the defunct theatre in that part of town. Their favorite musical is Rent.

Example conversation:

You: Oh, hey! Are you taking the SAT today also? Nervous?
ASS:
“We can do it, me and you
We can do it, we can do it
We can make our dreams come true
Everything you’ve ever wanted
Is just waiting to be had”
You: Right, right, I get it—
ASS:
“Beautiful girls, wearing nothing but pearls
Caressing you, undressing you
And driving you mad…”
You: Okay! Good luck (runs away)
ASS: (calling after you) What? It’s The Producers! You know, Nathan Lane! He’s awesome!

(3 Hours and 45 Minutes Later)

You: Oh my God, that was the longest test of my life.
ASS:
“Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes—”
You: Yeah. So, uh, how’d you do on the English test?
ASS:
“Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.”
You: Well, see you on Monday.
ASS: I’m so sorry, once I get Rent into my head, I just can’t stop! (throws hands open to the world) “How about looooooooooooooove?” (holds hand out to you as you, again, run away)

There’s also the Watches Upon the Silver Screen musical lover (WUSS). These people claim to love musicals, but only if it’s a movie. Their favorite musical is Chicago or Cabaret, depending on their age.

Example Conversation:

You: Hey, we have an extra ticket to see Wicked. Want to come?
WUSS: What’s that?
ASS: Hello! It’s the story of the wicked witch of the West while she’s growing up. You know, it has that song that goes
“Don’t dream too far
Don’t lose sight of who you are
Don’t remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I’m not that girl!”
WUSS: Huh. No. I don’t know it. Who’s in it?
You: I don’t know, but I’m sure they’re good. I’ve never seen a bad show at the Pantages.
WUSS: They show movies there? (ASS looks scandalized)
You: It’s a stage production.
WUSS: Oh. (looks a little like a non-parent smelling a dirty diaper for the first time) Well, I don’t really do that.
You: But… don’t you love musicals?
WUSS: Well, yeah. But you know, I don’t really go to see stage productions. Sheesh, what do you take me for, an ASS?
ASS: Ha! You wish!
“There’s only One (ah) Singular Sensation–”
You: Right. Let’s go. (to ASS) Is that what you’re wearing?
ASS: What’s wrong with this? (holds up necklace) “And her black beads shimmer, and you’re aching to move, but you’re caught in the web, of the Spider Woman, in her velvet cape…”
You: Let’s… just go.

There’s also the It Doesn’t Interest Or Tempt me (IDIOT). This is the person who doesn’t really ever give any thought to musicals, except when they go on a trip to New York and suddenly they are a Broadway expert and simply MUST have front row seats to the best show in town. Their favorite musical is Cats.

Example Conversation:

You: Okay, guys, what are we going to see tonight?
WUSS: Is History Boys out?
ASS: Oh, that sounds like a good idea. (everyone braces themselves expecting ASS to start singing) What?
You: Oh! Nothing. Nothing at all. Great. History Boys it is.
IDIOT: Wait a second, I haven’t had my say. What is this movie?
WUSS: It’s a musical about a group of boarding school guys applying for the same spots at Oxford, and it reflects a lot on the past lives of the teachers and such.
ASS: “Memory! All alone in the moonlight!”
IDIOT: You know, I saw that. On Broadway.
ASS: (forces a yawn) Yeah, I know.
IDIOT: It was so good.
ASS: (rolls eyes) Yeah. Good for you. (coughs and says “poser” under her breath)
IDIOT: What did you just say?
ASS: Nothing. (gets up and walks out, singing as she goes) “Give em the old, razzle dazzle—razzle dazzle them!”
IDIOT: You know what? I have had it with that ASS—
You: Let’s just go.
IDIOT: I WENT TO BROADWAY! HAVE YOU BEEN TO BROADWAY?
You: Yeah, yeah, it’s great.
IDIOT: Ugh. You get it, WUSS, don’t you?
WUSS: I don’t really do… stagey stuff.
IDIOT: Ugh. Forget it. (storms out of room)
Hear more screaming and fighting between IDIOT and ASS outside. ASS is singing a song from “Assassins.”
WUSS: So… you ready?
You: Yeah. Let’s go.

So, that’s it for now. More musical lover varieties to come. The Julie Andrew type (loves the Rodgers and Hammerstein classics, probably knows how to do home canning), the Broadway whore (has seen everything on Broadway and sees everything new as it comes out) the Broadway call girl (does everything the Broadway whore does, but also writes about it for The New Yorker and calls everything ‘lousy’), and lots more.

On my final note, I would like to have been able to post a video clip here of Norm MacDonald’s SNL send-up of West Side Story, where the Cobras and the Panthers are battling one another on the streets of New York, and Norm (leader of the Cobras) has no idea why everyone keeps singing. If you go here, you can listen to it. It’s still muy hilarious.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Ocean December 28, 2006

See?

I was on my way to the post office and I almost swerved off the road when I caught sight of the water. Wow. The ocean was angry, my friends. Think of any synonym for the word untamed. Yeah. It was that too. I almost turned around to go home and get my camera and then I thought, what am I doing? It will take me 20 minutes to go to the post office and mail everything and then I can go home and get my camera. It’s not the likely that the water will look any different in 20 minutes.

So I went to the post office, did my business, narrowly avoided a collision with a not-so-youthful skateboarder on the sidewalk, went home, grabbed my camera and my video camera, and then drove back to the beach. The parking lot was full of gawkers just like me.

I had initially thought to myself, why is everyone just sitting in their cars? I was going to let the kids out and run along the sand while I videotaped, however when I opened the car door, it became apparent: cars are far too comfortable and resilient these days. The wind was so loud I could barely hear the sound of the waves crashing. I saw several birds try to fly against the wind and get blown back. And the sand, oh the sand. I can’t believe my glasses didn’t break. Or at least chip.

Anyway, I made the kids sit in the car while I videotaped said ocean. I also drove around to two of the bluff viewpoints and took some high ground shots of the water. It was truly amazing. Even though I scribbled pages upon pages in my journal, I have trouble describing exactly how it felt to look and listen to the water, the wind, the sand, the rustling fronds of the palm trees. I thought of this line from The Awakening by Kate Chopin—

“The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in the abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.”

I always thought this line could only allude to a serene and calm body of water, that the turbulence of a windswept ocean had no place in the soul. Maybe it’s because I’m still going through the post-holiday stress, but the stormy ocean spoke to my soul yesterday and did much for my mental stability. Certainly more than any calm body of water. This morning, when I walked the dogs, I glimpsed the ocean and the waves were missing all the signs of white water, there were fewer ripples and rolls. The wind was gone. In its place were tons of fallen palm fronds and the feeling that an incredible amount of cleansing had just taken place.

And then I picked up the dog poop and went home (you weren’t expecting something serious, now, were you?).

What are you looking at, butthead?

10 Things You Might Not Be Able to Say About Yourself (And Probably Don’t Want To) December 27, 2006

Kristi tagged me for a meme some time ago, and I like Kristi, so here it is.

10 Ways I’m Different From You:

10. I love funky patterns and prints on my socks and tights, and I will even wear them with formalwear. And Converses.

9. When on an airplane, I line up the peanuts next to one another and separate the halves from the wholes. I don’t know why, but probably to pass the time.

8. I once attended a nighttime launch for Space Shuttle Atlantis (I highly recommend this to everyone in the world—it’s an amazing sight) and a woman sat down on my blanket without invitation. She went on to participate in conversation I was having with my friend and my brother by telling us weird stories about her dating life. Her stories were met with awkward silence, but she continued to tell them anyway. To top it off, during one of the awkward silences, she farted—on MY blanket—and said, “Oh. Excuse Me.”After she left, my brother hissed at me, “Why do you always attract the weirdos?”

7. I am often questioned about my ethnicity. Past guesses have included Hawaiian, Mexican, Mulatto, Cuban, Columbian, Polynesian, American Indian, and just about every Asian concoction you can imagine. On an acting resume, this is called “The Multiethnic Look.”

6. I think it’s funny to wrap random pieces of furniture with Reynold’s Wrap. You should see our Christmas tree’s star.

5. I used to have an apple orchard of 150 trees and can make just about anything out of an apple.

4. I shared a bedroom with my grandmother until I was in seventh grade.

3. I am a wedding addict. I have been the maid of honor in one wedding, a grooms-maid in one wedding, and a bridesmaid in four weddings. I have one wedding in the works where I will be a bridesmaid, and two probabilities of being a bridesmaid in the future. I have also been a reader and a flower girl.

2. I would like to see the sun set over every ocean. Two down, two to go.

1. When I was in sixth grade, I was second baseman in a softball game, and I was hit by a power grounder on my knee and it resulted in a bump. When it first happened, I said it hurt a lot for me to kneel in church, but my mother made me do it anyway, and accused me of making it up. Although the pain subsided after a year or so, this bump NEVER WENT AWAY. No one has ever believed this story. I finally found out this year that this is a condition called Osgood Schlatter Disease. And satisfaction is mine.

I’m not tagging anyone. Aren’t the post-holidays stressful enough?

On The Second Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me December 26, 2006

It’s the day after Christmas. For some of you, this means time to write out a stack of thank you notes. I know a lot of people who avoid writing thank you notes. Their excuses vary, but I like my rocket engineer brother’s excuse of ‘I’m not a good writer’ and ‘Besides, I can’t spell’ (he really can’t – he forged my mom’s name once in school and misspelled it). I’ve decided to help him and his band of left brain thinkers with my very own Mathematical Equation for writing a thank you note, henceforth known as the Quadriley Equation:

ax(squared) + bx + c = Thank You Note

Wherein,

x = The Present
a = “Thank you”
b = The Recipient
c = An additional thoughtful message

For example, my friend gave my son a radio control helicopter and my daughter a Barbie bathing suit.

This means x = helicopter and bathing suit, a = “Thank you,” and b = The Boy and Little No Limit.

Therefore,

ax = “Thank you for the helicopter and bathing suit.”

To square the comment, elaborate further. So,

ax(squared) = “Thank you for the helicopter and bathing suit. We appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

bx = The Boy immediately opened the helicopter and began flying it around. Little No Limit wore her bathing suit when we went to the beach for lunch, but the water was too cold for her to actually get wet.

c = When you visit in March, we can all go down to the beach together and watch her take on the waves in her new suit. By then, The Boy will certainly have mastered all the mechanics of the helicopter and can use it to fend off the birds from attacking you (I still haven’t forgotten the incident with the seagull, ha ha).

Other Relevant Rules/Theorems/Principles:

The Name Rule: Address the card to someone, “Dear Yo’ Mama”

The Adverb Theorem: Less is More. Subtract all uses of the words “so” “very” and “much”

The Rule on Co-Workers: In the case of presents from co-workers, omit variable ‘c’ from the equation, lest you get sued, fired, or both.

The Rule on Neighbors: In the case of neighbors, do not use variable ‘c’ to mention any pending neighborly requests, eg “I just wanted to mention, your dog was barking all night again. Could you do something about that?”

The Typing Principle: Typing = Impersonal

The ‘Close Enough for Government Work’ Theorem: If the length of your thank you note appears too short, double it.

See? Writing thank you notes are as easy as 3.14159265…

Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls December 25, 2006

I am inspired by Toddled Dredge’s decision to post to her blog every one of the 12 Days of Christmas, and plan to do the same.

First things first—Merry Christmas! Remember how excited I was in my previous post? About how magical Christmas Eve would be? You know that saying about the best laid plans of mice and men?

In a word (or two), stomach virus.

The Boy had it worse than me. Actually, maybe I had it worse. I mean, he was the one throwing up, but I was the one being thrown up on. Yup. My hair. My shirt. The couch. The floor. Yeah. It was not so good. I wound up hitting the sack pretty early and left Not-So-Thrilled Husband to set up the art easel and wrap the remaining presents with neither my assistance nor companionship.

This morning, everyone woke up feeling much better, giving new meaning to one of my favorite Christmas songs:

Well, we have unwrapped out plethora (tell me, Jefe, do you know what a plethora is?) of presents given to us by dear family and friends, and I consider myself very lucky for being surrounded by so much love, and I was listening to this song again and thinking about the meaning behind it, which made me think of all our troops overseas who are celebrating without family and friends (of course, if they are—as Jarhead might suggest—celebrating with Jake Gyllenhal naked, then I am slightly jealous).

Our (insert adjective of your choice) President, recently said, “America is blessed to have fine citizens who volunteer to defend us in distant lands. For many of them, this Christmas will be spent far from home, and on Christmas our Nation honors their sacrifice, and thanks them for all they do to defend our freedom.”

Mr. Bush, Please bring our troops home. If at all else, I really hate to think that guys like these have access to high powered artillery and machine guns:

The Magic Is Back December 23, 2006

This post is my contribution to Blog Carnival, which I learned about while reading Scribbit. The topic is Favorite Christmas Day Memories.

I grew up in a devout Catholic family, and every Christmas Eve, we attended Midnight Mass. It was one of the few nights a year in my childhood when I was allowed to stay up so late, the other nights being Halloween and the night of my birthday slumber party. Afterwards, some of the people at my church and members of my extended family would come to the house and we would have an early Christmas morn breakfast. Breakfast consisted of the typical things, biscuits, eggs, grits, Jimmy Dean sausage, and random Filipino food. As an added bonus, my mother always sliced and fried summer sausage. This is neither normal nor healthy, but surprisingly good, assuming you’re the kind of person who eats summer sausage (ie, not my husband, who is vegan, and rather disturbed by the whole notion of summer sausage and the cooking thereof). The grand finale of every Post Midnight Mass Breakfast involved my brothers and sister and I begging our parents to open the presents. Every year, my father would deny us the right with the words “We open the gifts on Christmas morning,” which of course always received the follow up, “But it is Christmas morning!” and so forth. This conversation of plead and response continued for only 20 minutes or so, which is frighteningly long when you’re a kid, and then he would relent and let us open one single gift of our choice. We would all go to sleep, and then wake up later for the ‘real’ Christmas morning, to discover, of course, that Santa had visited and left behind presents, eaten the sugar cookies, drank the milk, and filled out stockings. It was a magical feeling.

There is a degree of excitement, the proverbial butterfly in the stomach, that always existed from the time of those last waking moments before falling asleep on Christmas Eve to the rest of Christmas Day. I was usually the first awake and would just sit and look at the presents, and wait. Wait for everyone else to get up and the only thing keeping me going was the magical feeling of anticipation and excitement. It was a great feeling. But like everyone else in the world, I grew up. I stopped believing in Santa. Not too much of a shock. I wish I could give you the humorous details of some horrific day of reckoning where I sobbed “he isn’t reeeeeeaaaaaallllll!!” but alas, that memory is reserved for the day I realized I could never marry one of the boys from Voltron.

I Heart Lance

Sorry, what was I talking about? Oh yes, the Magic of Christmas. The magic didn’t exactly disappear, but it certainly faded. I would still get excited for Christmas, but I had other things kept popping up that took my attention away from it—school anxiety and social drama in the old days, general notions of poverty and commercialization in the new days. And then, this year happened. It’s true, the magic has returned—and I’m not talking David Blaine here. I’m talking going to Disneyland, finger-tingling magic.

It started with decorating the tree. The Boy is just about 4 and Little No Limit is just past 2, and due to a series of random events, this is their first year decorating a Christmas tree. My dad happened to be in town visiting, and we made lots of jokes about the old ornaments my brothers and sister and I made in grade school. The gold-painted macaroni picture frame ornament (what the hell was my teacher thinking????), the felt snowman with sequin buttons (now missing an eye), the puffball Santa (now without a face), the clothespin Rudolph (no nose, unless you count the stray red fibers attached to the dried glue spot), etc. Reminiscing about the ornaments and the fact that my mother still has them inspired me to do other things my mom did, which was to get the rest of the house all Christmassed out.

Little No Limit loves the ornaments so much she has, regrettably, broken a number of them. Her little hands are just incapable handling things gently. Our tree is now very unbalanced. The top half is adorned, the bottom half bare. Oh well. The Boy likes to pick up gifts underneath the tree and say “we open this on Christmas!” Both of them like to flip the switch that turns all the lights on.

For the first time in a long time, I find myself super-psyched about Christmas Eve. About not falling asleep because I’m laying awake, too excited to nod off, worried that I might scare off Santa (okay, yes, I know the truth about him, but that feeling is in there — “Santa’s coming! I know him!”). This Christmas Eve, after the kiddies are in bed, I will sit up and wrap hidden presents with hidden wrapping paper, and I will set up an art easel and stand it next to the tree with a tag that says “From Santa.” I will fill up stockings and eat the plate of cookies (I’m looking forward to that part) and drink the cup of milk set aside for Santa.

I cannot wait for Christmas. To see the kids walk into the room, to see them surprised, to see them excited. I cannot wait for my kids to experience this magic. And I thank them for giving it back to me.

Blogthing me This, Blogthing me That December 20, 2006

It’s my 50th post and I had intended on putting 25 more things about myself to continue along with my 25th post, and then 25 more in my 75th and then the final 25 in my 100th post, but to be honest, after that first bit of indulgence, I feel a little weird talking about myself. Of course, blogging regularly about my life seems perfectly acceptable. What I decided to do was see how others see me, and what better way to discover myself than with the help of Blogthings Quizzes.

1. Star Wars Character I am Most Like: The Emperor. I don’t deny the physical resemblance is startling.

2. What is My World View: “I strongly reject traditional values.” Obviously, since I depended on a Blogthings quiz to tell me what my world view is.

3. I am 16 percent angry. “I am so laid back, no one could ever accuse me of getting angry.” Except for Best Buy and their stupid %&*^$#!! plasma TV.

4. The Three Question Personality Test told me I am an “Idealist.” Some people called Ben Franklin an idealist. Not me. I call him an asshole (see #3).

5. I am 83 percent lucky. Well, I didn’t dress up as leprechaun for Halloween because my name is Eimear Dillon (courtesy of the ‘What’s my Irish Name’ quiz).

6. The World’s Shortest Personality Test. “I am dreamy, peaceful, and young at heart.”
Thank goodness I went with the picture that reminded of the of the Pepto Bismol label.

7. I am 70 percent average American “because I’ve known my best friend for 10 years or more” but I am un-average because I have a college degree. Personally, I’d categorize both of those feats under 83 percent lucky.

8. I’ve experienced 76 percent of life. “And unless I’m in my 40s, I’m probably wise beyond my years.” Well, hello, I AM the Emperor.

9. What is my Superhero profile?
My Superhero Name is The Screaming Hurricane – which means my theme is “Here I am, Rock you like a Hurricane!”
My Superpower is Soul Sold to Devil – how is this a “power”?
My Weakness is 80s Music – isn’t everybody’s?
My Weapon is Your Air Wand – I can finally challenge David Blaine to a wizard’s duel

10. Where should my inner New Yorker live? Straight outta Brooklyn. Ya heard? I’M KEEPIN’ IT REAL!!!!!!!!

11. I am 34 percent vain. Apparently, that 34 percent manifests itself in my blogging. And my sweet badonkadonk.

12. My Hidden Talent: “You have the natural talent of rocking the boat, thwarting the system.” That’s right. Abbie Hoffman ain’t got nothing on this suburban stay at home mom of two! Power to the people!

13. “I have my sarcastic moments.” Thanks for the heads up.

14. What’s my beer personality? “I am Samuel Adams.” Among other things, “I’m just as likely to party with a group of strangers as I am to wake up in a very foreign place.” That would explain many occasions that are best left to the imagination, because members of my family read this from time to time (in which case, NOTHING HAPPENED).

15. What kind of candy am I? “Butterfinger. They call me sticky fingers for a reason.” How about if I just stick my middle finger up at this el stupido quiz that makes no sense.

16. I am Pretty Logical. Some people call Ben Franklin logical. I call him the writer of the Butterfinger quiz.

17. I am 62 percent impulsive. Well, if you know how I met my husband…

18. I am not scary. I guess it’s because I didn’t choose “flesh” as my favorite color. Sickos.

19. I am a Daredevil. In that case, I’m going to join in with Evel Kneivel and sue Kanye West.

20. I should rule Venus. Duh. I should just rule. Period. I AM THE EMPEROR. “Oh, I am afraid the shields generator will be quite operational when your friends arrive…”

21. “I tend to buy new underwear instead of doing laundry.” You got me there, hombre.

22. “I was born in the Year of the Snake.” It asked what year I was born, and I answered it. THAT IS NOT A QUIZ.

23. “I am 76 percent open [about my life]” This is also the same percentage of life I have experienced. Coincidence?

24.My Inner European is Irish. Except when I’m the Emperor. Then, my inner European is clearly Spanish. Because no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.

25. I am 53 percent addicted to Blogthings. “Addicted but not totally dependent.” Interesting. That’s in direct proportion to my relationship with alcohol.

P.S. This is not a response to Kristi’s Meme. That’s coming later.

One Singular Sensation Every Little Step She Takes December 16, 2006

Back in February/March of this year, I enrolled The Boy is a dance class, and it lasted a whopping three lessons. He hated it. He did not participate, had nothing to do with the ballet slippers or man-tights or anything. In fact, the teacher didn’t even charge me for the lessons because “it’s not like he’s actually doing anything.” I think she was bummed. She’s always trying to bring more boys into her dance school, and she was hoping The Boy would bring more of the younger ones in. Her own son is a professional dancer, and she has a number of pictures of him in media leap framed on her studio walls. Alas, The Boy will be doing no such thing.

While taking The Boy to dance, I discovered Little No Limit loved going with him. As soon as she turned two in August, I enrolled her. So sure was I of her natural inclination to dance (just call me Mrs. Friggin Shields), I prepaid for August through December AND coughed up the extra $60 for her to be in the Nutcracker. She will be “snow.”

First dance class. She screamed and cried. I sat with her through the whole class. They continued in this fashion. I bought Barbie The Nutcracker and Barbie Swan Lake on DVD and some Angelina Ballerina books. We watch these movies and read these books, and she wears her ballet slippers everywhere (incidentally, Barbie The Nutcracker is surprisingly good—they used some sort of motion detection device thingamajig to animate the dance moves directly from dancers in the New York Ballet Company). Little No Limit seems to enjoy dancing a little more now, but she’s still not too thrilled with it. I guess there’s a reason other dance schools don’t let you enroll kids until they’re 3.

Last night was our first dance rehearsal, outside of regular lessons, for the Nutcracker performance. Everyone was there—the sugar plum fairy, the older snowflakes and snow troupe or whatever you call them. Little No Limit’s group of “snow” is a combination of 4 different classes, approximately 15-20 little girls, ranging in age from 3-5 and also includes the special needs class. My daughter is both the youngest and least responsive.

They practiced the routine three times. The first time, Little No Limit did it because the teacher held her hand through it. And by “did it,” I mean she walked around and smiled. The second time, one of the teen ballerinas carried her around while the others danced. The third time, Little No Limit rolled around on the floor in the corner and screamed “no” and the teen dancers all gawked at me like the poster child for abstinence.

Did you ever see that episode of The Simpsons where Homer’s brother invents a machine that enables you to understand what your baby is saying?

I need one of those. Badly.

I think during the first round of dance last night, Little No Limit was saying “oh, okay, this isn’t so bad. I get to run around?” OR “Wow, is everyone running to a table laden with cake?”

The second time, perhaps, “Uh, didn’t we just do this? Why do we need to do it again?” OR “Dude, there isn’t any cake.”

The third time, I’m assuming it was something along the lines of “What the fizzuck man, we’re just running around in circles!” OR “I want some cake.”

So, The Nutcracker is December 22. We have two more dance rehearsals and my teacher said, based on last night’s practice round, she fully expects Little No Limit to do the show. I suspect the dance teacher herself will take her around the stage. She told me that she has “strategically placed” teenage dancers to help the little ones along and she herself always wears a white dress for the show “just in case.” I’m pretty confident my Little No Limit will be one of those cases.

Who’s that Bolshoi bound ballerina looking at me?