In my kitchen I have collected a number of demure, domestic-looking statues I call the ladies.  It started with an inexpensive Goodwill figure of a peaceful Amish woman my mother had her in kitchen, and whenever I see a garage sale or thrift store lady, I bring her home to the heartbeat of my household.  The ladies keep me company while I go about my least favorite domestic tasks, such as making Toe that "banana walnut cake" he keeps asking for (without using walnuts, which he won't eat, without using too much banana, which he doesn't like, and without using any dairy, to which he is allergic).  They shoulder me up for the scary tasks, such as cleaning behind the refridgerator (God help me, what is that stuff back there?) or killing a rogue spider when Hubby is not home.  They always remind me that compared to, say, Laura Ingalls Wilder's mom, I have it soooo easy.

Roo loves my statues and calls them the "mommies." He regularly takes them from their posts and puts them out on adventrures.  Sometimes I will find the mommies lined up in the hallway with several dinosaurs, as if leading them off to a Triassic war.  Sometimes a mommy will be left face-down in the dog water dish. Mommy had too much to drink and passed out in the park fountain?  Mommy is stirring a giant kettle of soup with her head?  I may find the mommies gently laid side by side on Birdie's enormous dog bed and covered wth kleenex "blankies" (Mommies are sooo tired) or see Roo put them on the phone (Mommies are ordering Roo a pizza?) . He makes them jump wildly on the couch when he is in a good mood because Mommies are walking on sunshine.

There is one mommy that Roo truly dislikes.  To be fair, all the lads in the household have expressed unfavorable things about this "Bad Mommy," and regularly give her dismissive looks.  I never really looked closely at Bad Mommy myself, or gave much thought to why she may be so unloveable, but here are a few things I have come up with:

a Facelessness.  Okay, I see.  Bad Mommy doesn't have a face.  And facelessness isn't really a mommyish attribute.  It is more something reserved for very un-mommy-like apparitions, such as serial killers and Edvard Munch paintings.  Got it.
a The Dead Hand.  Bad Mommy appears to have one arm raised in a body-blocking "back-off" pose that would not seem very welcoming to hugs.  Her meaty little fist also seems cocked and read to strike,  a sign that Bad Mommy may not be very lovey dovey.
a Scale.  Now, if Bad Mommy were to human scale, she would be about 11 feet tall with a head the size of a sideways mango.  Her Amazonian height seems to make her tower over everything, and she is more of an intimidating monument than a mommy.  That's just not warm and fuzzy.
a The Killer Spade.  Bad Mommy is wielding what, upon first glance, appears to be an innocent garden tool.  A closer look reveals that what may seem heart-shaped is also very pointy, as if to enhance the glinting silver bayonette quality of the implement, making it potentially lethal.  Yah, Bad Mommy can cut you.
a The Disemboweled Hearts.  Sure, maybe it's just the pattern of her skirt.  But look again.  The hearts are huge, organ-sized one might say.  There are only three (the same number of menfolk in my house) and they appear to be randomly tacked to her butcher-like apron in the manner of ghoulish badges.  This seems more macabre than any trick of fabric.

Yesterday, Roo took matters into his own hands and decapitated Bad Mommy.  At least I think he did.  I found her broken form discarded in a basket of dirty laundry, a lonely and despicable death.  Hubby half-heartedly Krazy glued her noggin back on, and put her back at her post in the kitchen.  I can't be sure, but I really thought I saw a wee smile when Roo saw her there, a thick rope of dried glue around her reattached, cockeyed head.

OMStars!  Date nights with Hubby really bring out our inner dork.  Lately they have somehow become strategic coffehouse planning sessions on how to launch an "extreme" basement cleanup, or a specualtive discussion on which in-law we think is most likely to get drunk at Thanksgiving dinner this year (with wagering).

Last night, I almost lost bladder control, we laughed so hard (romantic, huh?).  I mean, we both of us cried with laughter...cried.  Embarrassing guffaws, and I think maybe the barista at Barnes and Noble maybe thought we were a couple of middle-age pot heads. 

If you haven't been here, go here:  www.CakeWrecks.com
                                    and here: www.failblog.org
And seriously, don't drink a lot of coffee or water first.

Hubby and I went on one of our traditional "sprees" at The Animal Ark, a secondhand store nearby whose proceeds go entirely to supporting their network of amazingly compassionate no-kill shelters for homeless animals. What we love about shoppping here is threefold: since we live mere blocks away, we feel we are supporting small and local retail (see the 3/50 Project); since the proceeds go to the shelters, we feel our money is supporting the humane treatment of animals which we deeply believe in; because the place is packed to rafters with every crazy rat-holed thing known to man, we can usually find what we need for a deeply discounted price (which helps the tight budget). 

Now Toe and Roo may appear to be wee little bundles of blondeness in their photos, but the boys are actually mutants growing at a freakish rate.  By the size of Reuben's feet alone, the pediatrician wonders if we're researching the Big Ten basketball schools yet.  They have outgrown everything, and need new shoes about every 4-6 months.  As you can imagine, this is tough on the clothing budget, so today we were looking for some soft, winter-weather Seattle Grungle style schoolclothes to stretch their wardrobe a little.  And we did find some (although secretly, betweem us, we did breifly lose our minds and spring for one singularly too-incredibly-cute-to-pass-up shirt for each of them from an overpriced corporate store we regularly defame).  Total: 4 pair quality jeans, four shirts, a fleece top, two sweatshirts and some cutie patootie "Just Chillin" polar bear pjs witht the tag still on them= $21.00.

And when the shopping was over, there, in a pile of dust-covered crap in the corner, was Stella.  Roo initially found her, guitar connosieur that he is.  Then Steve spotted her, ignored her until Roo pulled her out of the wreckage of abandonment and gave her a strum.  The rich, mellow sound turned Hubby's head, and the $20 pricetag, the beautiful woods and the ivy etched on her flattop (acoustic, not electric as int he picture), spoke my name to him.  Or maybe it was the hiipie sunburst on the front, I am not really clear.  Anyways, behind my back, Hub bought this lovely 1956 Stella Harmony H40 for me, a replacement for the gorgeous Baby Taylor I was learnin' on when I became ill (and shortly thereafter sold her in the midst of financial disaster).

Now Roo and I are set to jam, with Toe on keyboards and percussion.  Welcome to the family, Stella!

  

This week we were introduced to another member of the ABA therapy staff in our home.  We will call her Sweetie Swede, and we like her.  First of all, she’s adorably, gigantically pregnant.  Immediately when I meet her I want to prop up her feet, offer her tea, apologize for the condition of my bathroom.  It’s hard to concentrate on the therapy because I am trying to locate in my brain the dormant cells which store the information what baby stuff do I have left for her in my basement?  Of course there is nothing left, absolutely nothing.  We were carting that gear off to pregnant friends, Once Upon a Child and twincitiesfreemarket before Reuben even cut a tooth.  I think we may even have put some of it to the curb with a typical Eastside “free” sign just to get it out of the house.  It’s like a newly determined non-smoker who breaks up their last pack of cigarettes into the trash, insuring that it would be an act of stupidity and defiance (not to mention financial hardship) to go back on their plans to stop the insanity.  Um, we were comfortable with just the two boys.

Anyway, Sweetie Swede may be about to pop, but she is pert and perky, light on her feet and full smiles.  Surely no woman that pregnant should be that cheery, but she is.  Tovi loves her instantly, and proves his love by bringing her each and every one of his most precious toys:  Dinaco blue Lightning McQueen, his chunky red plastic Duplo biplane, even his Dora princess puzzle.  Yowza!  It’s L-O-V-E.  Her eyes glisten with goodness, I mean glisten.  Her hair falls in ringlets about her and her face has the welcoming glow of the Madonna.  Truly.  God has sent me an angel.  I swear, when she sits down on the living room carpet with my child I hear music, actual music.

So, Toe and Sweetie Swede joyfully play Blues Clues, they draw and make believe.  Roo smiles at her bashfully from the doorway, then runs off to get her his favorite dinosaur.  In the kitchen I want to bake her a hearty bread or casserole.  If tipping were appropriate, I would give Sweetie Swede the boys’ 1890 silver dollar I have saved from their great-grandma Braun, one of the ten silver dollars her dad gave her when she got married in 1919. But no, what can I do for Sweetie?  Can I write her a poem?  Does she need a labor coach? 

Of course, just then I remember that in a few weeks time, Sweetie Swede will be gone, off on maternity leave.  Then we will be left here at the doorway of winter with Replacement Swede or Ersatz Swede or heaven knows who.  So I guess we’ll  just have to hold onto our precious things and see what happens.

Of course, just then I remember that in a few weeks time, Sweetie Swede will be gone, off on maternity leave.  Then we will be left here at the doorway of winter with Replacement Swede or Ersatz Swede or heaven knows who.  So I guess we’ll  just have to hold onto our precious things and see what happens.

For Lara N., in memory of her beautiful little sister

And in memory of my niece Amy B., beloved, gifted, and gone too soon

Today I am just one of millions writing love on my arm--in support of those who battle depression and other crippling emotional illnesses, with prayers and comfort for those who have survived the suicide of a loved one.  Give encouragement and have courage.

In our household we spend about half our food budget on produce, despite what we grow ourselves in the toxic brownfield of our inner-city backyard or glean from generous green-thumbed neighbors, friends, family and waste-concious farms.  Since issues of fair trade, social justice and compassionate labor policy are very important to us, it is a hard pill to swallow to spend money on big industry Dole Dole Dole Dole bananas--an inexpensive fruit that our children (like most) devour wolfishly.  Typically we seek out the higher-priced organic bananas of fair trade growers, but right now it's bananarama at the BS house.  When Roo puts away 3 a day (with Toe catching up), you're starting to talk some serious coin, and it almost makes me want to encourage Pringle consumption.

I know that a lot of people struggle with the highwire act of the tight budget, and with balancing ethical and moral beliefs with financial reality, but at bananas we draw the line.  Nicaraguan banana plantations, particularly those operated by the major fruit import companies have been shamelessly poisoning, exploiting and lying to the people on whose backs they have built their business.  One of the most controversial documentaries ever, Bananas!*   is a powerful lesson on the global politics of food .  It is appearing at the International Documentary Film Festival in Amsterdam next week (oh, yeah, it might be hard to get the details on that link unless you read Dutch--the English version has been removed, I wonder why...), and will be available on DVD in December--despite failed corporate attempts to have an injunction against its release--if you want to watch for yourself.

Go hug someone!  H.R. 3952!!  Read the bill, read all the great things it means for us!

I’m not a media geek.  Yes, Wired does come to my home, but the subscription is not in my name.  And I only read it to name drop in conversations with Hubby and his geeky pals (ie:  I am so on the fence about the Droid… OR  Can you believe all the hoopla about Crunch Pad?). Yah, typically I can’t really pull it off.

Having a blog will definitely win you a little street cred with those who are media geeks, but not much. HTML is so 2004.  If you love books with dust jackets, leatherbound planners and the clickity clack of rotary phones, you just can’t win.

One thing too cool to miss though is Google “sidewicki.”  Have you tried this?  It’s so gravy for those of us who can’t shut up about their opinion, I can hardly believe it.  If you upload this thing and log into your Google account, you can post and read commentary on a status bar that appears alongside any URL jus by clicking the sidewicki tab.  Since it is so new, there is very little out there yet, but basically it’s the sneaky behind-the-scenes chatter about what’s appearing on any site, and it is so freakishly meta that it makes my head all hurty to think about it too hard.  Upload it and check it out.  Go to the Nestle website and read all the debate about their labor policies.  But please don’t sidewicki-slander BCD.org!

: one who is experienced or knowledgeable : expert; also : freak 4a

...um, he is my gentle dreamer.  Remember getting the Sears or Montgomery Wards Wish Book at Christmas?  Lying under the tree in the dark, paging through the toy section and making a mental checklist of everything you would get for Christmas if your parents struck it rich?  No?  That was only me?  Well, anyway, BCH still does this.  These days the catalogs are thinner, but they are more plentiful and highly specialized.  Now that the boys understand that things can be bought, the three of them nestle down on our tiny couch and page through glossies of Legos, kites, books, international toys, electronic gadgets.  They surf online sites of toyriffic coolness. Tovi has a high-end taste profile and usually requests the most expensive item in the catalog, while Reuben has a more broad interest and points and says "This one!  This one!" for, say, 8 out of 10 items shown.

This year I know the holidays will be especially hard financially for a lot of people, us included.  They've lost their jobs.  They've lost their houses.   Some of them have lost their savings or the safety of their retirement.  Lots of people are just struggling to stretch what used to be an adequate budget to cover what has become the horrendously inflated cost of food, utilities, healthcare, transportation, housing. 

What I pray for them and wish for them is this.  Joy in the comforts of family, peace in the knowledge that life is so much more than things, and excitement over the fact that, despite what we are living through, it is okay to dream and human to wish.  And knowledge that God (like Santa) holds every request close to his heart, and sends us amazing gifts we would never even think to ask for.

Hubby's former student, Emily Troutman, was just named one of only 5 UN Citizen Ambassadors in the world, and the only one from the USA.  Her video appeal to world leaders is moving and breathtaking.  View it and see her stunning photography as well as hear her message of social justice and peace at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zo3gydiUy64.  Way to go, Emily!  Steve is so proud of your work!