Archive for life in the bull city

not that it hasn’t rained in weeks,

but after receiving about 11 drops of rain, I find myself compulsively checking out the radar.  Refresh, refresh, nothing happening, nothing coming.  It’s a bit like it was Christmas, and Santa ate one of your cookies and forgot to leave the gifts.  Bitter pill to swallow.

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somewhere, someone in marketing is smiling

One solid week of answering questions about cars (“Hey, have you ever seen a purple Prius?”  “Mom, why don’t you say the ‘t’ in ‘Chevrolet’?”  “Who do we know who drives a Jetta?”) found me creating this document today:

I’m sure the quality would make my graphic design friends shudder (feel free to create me a better one), but I am hoping that putting this on a clipboard and giving little w. a pen to tally up the cars he sees will buy me an hour or two of peace while we are driving.  We shall see…

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love is in the air

Or, at the very least, dangling from our ceiling.  I finally took down the Christmas garland this morning (funny how you never see the things that are right in front of you) and put my little hearts up in its place. 

I’ve been on a campaign to use up my collection of felt scraps, and stitching up these little guys finally put a dent in my stockpile. 

On a related note, my kids have apparently been silently suffering from the Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas blues and are placing an inordinate amount of importance on Valentine’s Day.  So much so that we had to repurpose an activity from last year and make an Advent Countdown Calendar for Valentine’s Day.  And still, no chocolates are to be found.

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seriously durham county public library?

Dear Book Intake Person,

Was there not enough blank space on the page for your sticker?  Are you trying to deny me even the most cursory details of the author’s biography?  Do you just do this because you can?  I do appreciate, however, your constancy in absurd sticker placement

Keep up the dubious work,

A Durham County Citizen

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ice day #2

Or really “Day of No Ice.”  Regardless, there was surprising calm at our house as the kids created their giant watercolor masterpiece together.  Happily.  In perfect harmony.

Apparently this painting depicts robots (turn yourself sideways), and there might be some intergalactic ray gun fighting.  I’m not sure; it was hard to tell with all of the giggling going on.

Biggest problem right now though is what to do with this creation.  Our gallery’s wall space is becoming increasingly crowded.

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what do snowmen do at night?

Happy New Year!  I’m taking a break from my haiku journaling to bring you this saga of a snowman.

We in North Carolina have had a snowy (for us) December.  On our latest and greatest snowstorm, the snow was perfect for building snowmen.  W. built this snowman which he promptly named “Frenzy” in honor of Space Police Lego.  Duh.

A day later, little w. walks into the front yard and says, “Huh.  Now I know what snowmen do at night.  They dance wildly!”

And the party must have been crazy because Frenzy seemed to be suffering the ill effects for much of the next day as well.

What do snowmen do at night indeed.

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“how are girls and boys different?”

asks my son today.

Coffee shop, students.  Answer:

“What do you think, son?”

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Sitting at Beantraders today while little e. dances away upstairs, w. asks me how boys and girls are different.  Fair enough question, I suppose, from a child who informs me daily who he is going to marry at school.  I look around and see 15 disaffected Duke students plugged into their laptops, some with earbuds in, many without.  We have already been interrupting their public study hall with our “Book in a Bag” reading and backpack cleaning out.  I don’t feel like being their dinner time conversational fodder.  “You’ll never believe what I heard this mom saying to her kid today.  She was, like, explaining the anatomical differences between males and females RIGHT THERE IN THE COFFEE SHOP!  EWWWW!”

So I opted for the fall back parenting question technique, the tactic that has served me so well in the past in many stickier situations than this one.

“Well, sweetie, what differences have you noticed?”  Bear in mind, dear reader, that my son regularly takes baths with his sister.  Anything could have popped out.  His reply?  “Well, girls usually have longer heads like yours. (Thanks, sweetie).  And their hair must grow faster; that’s why it’s usually longer.”

Public conversation over.  Dignity intact.  Question answered.  We returned to our respective drinks and discussed how much more mud would have to be on his pants before we would call them “brown” instead of “gray.”

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