Sheep Dog

Well, I found out recently that I am really, really annoying.  Scott, bless his little heart, pointed it out to me when the family was ordering half-price shakes at Dylan's.  Many of you probably already knew I was annoying, but Scott has been so blinded by love the past 20 years, he is just now noticing.  Or he's been too smart to say anything until now.

The night before Scott and the girls left for New York, we had a big "final night with all of us together."  We swam and then met my parents at Dylan's, where my annoyingness became apparent.

Xanthe:  What kinds do they have?
Me:  Chocolate, Kit Kat, Oreo, Butterfinger, marshmallow, strawberry, raspberry, peach...
Xanthe:  I want marshmallow!
Me:  No.  That's gross.  You can get caramel Oreo.  That sounds good.

Me on the phone with my mom:  I'm ordering now.  What does Dad want?
Coco:  He says chocolate.
Me:  No, that's dumb.  He likes nuts.  I'll get him chocolate raspberry cashew.

Me:  Scott, what are you getting?
Scott:  Butterfinger.
Me:  No, you can get two flavors.  Get Kit Kat too.  And get it with malt.  I can't believe you wouldn't get it with malt.

Golda:  I'm not going to get one.
Me:  What?  You have to.  You're getting raspberry Oreo because remember how good it was last time?

I have two theories.  One, I am on a no sugar diet.  If I'm going to live vicariously through someone else's ice cream, they had darn well better get the right flavor.

Second theory:  I am like a border collie.  You know border collies need to herd, right?  With some of my sheep going away, perhaps my shepherding instinct went into overdrive.  Instead of nipping at their heels, however, I just decided what kind of shakes they were getting.  It seems more sanitary.

In conclusion, instead of saying I'm annoying, let's say I'm a sheep dog on a major sugar crash.  It just sounds better.  Now, if everyone will sign a paper saying they promise to say I'm not annoying, I will kindly tell you what you want in your shake.

Earlier that day, I let Golda and Ruby go to Yogo for Toppings Tuesday, where you can get all the toppings you want for a dollar.  Personally, I don't think either one of them got enough toppings, but what can you do?  

Fashionist-ugh

Yes, this is my child.  He has inherited, through nature or nurture we don't know, my tragic fashion sense.  I came by it quite honestly.  I can't blame my mother; her taste is impeccable.  In the same way my father tried to condition me into a marathon runner, my mother steeped me in the joys of retail therapy.  Every failure of mine in life came with a validated parking stub at the Crossroads Mall and a crisp, new pair of the latest jeans as a consolation.  Every success was marked with a celebratory trip to Nordstrom for a consultation at the Lancome counter and maybe a pair of Polo socks, their smug horse logos meant to mark me as a winner.

All Mom's effort might have turned me into a successful shopper, if only it hadn't made my feet so tired.  If my dad thought a marathon was hard, he obviously never shopped with my mom.  For the same reasons Freestone "would rather be buried alive than practice violin," my mother's efforts to turn me into a fashionista backfired just a tad.  The smell of retail still makes me itchy, physically and emotionally.  Most notable among our mother-daughter shopping exploits are:  The time I literally fainted from hunger in Saks Fifth Avenue and the time my mom broke a rib and still went to the Nordstrom Semi-Annual Sale the next day.  All you people with your race stickers on your car windows, you ain't got nuthin' on my mom.  She is a warrior.

Before my girlfriends' trip, Scott came home bearing a big bag of new clothes for me.  In true Dopp fashion, he also came bearing a story about how "it was all on clearance, and then I had a 30% off coupon."  Only when Scott or my mom shop for me do I look presentable, and sometimes not even then.

On the trip, two separate women went out of their way to run after me, lunge at me, to inform me that there was a tag on my shirt.  While it was kind of them to exert themselves, I was thinking, "So what?"  It's not like it was a scorpion or something.  I thanked them both, but what I really wanted to say was, "AND my husband got 30% off the clearance price on this tag.  Can you believe that?"  I know, irrelevant information at a time like that, when I was in mortal danger of being seen with a tag hanging off my shirt.  My priorities are clearly out of whack.

However, I do have to pat myself on the back (at risk of finding an errant tag) for the clever way I surround myself with beautiful people (Scott, Coco, Bill - Coco dresses him - my kids, my friends, Scott's family, Emily, Lexie) who not only make me look better by association, but take pity on me and give me, if not actual clothes, fashion tips like "Wait, don't go out!  You're not wearing any pants," or "Did you mean to put on two different shoes?"  Thanks, team.  I could never do it without you.  I hope to reciprocate one day.  Here's what I'll do for you:  Bring me two seemingly mismatched socks and I'll tell you how they match.  It's not all about color, you know.  There are secrets, and I know them all.

Fictional Satire for Fun

Oh. My. Gosh.  I have totally been meaning to blog about how awesome my mom is, since, like, it was Mothers Day and everything.  It's just that I got so busy!  Saturday night, I completely spaced it, I was got so caught up in eating all the macadamia nuts I originally bought for my mom in Hawaii.  Have you tried those?  They're so good!  My mom loves them.  I'll totally have to get some for her next time I'm on Maui.

Sunday, I didn't have time because I had to go to my mom's house so she could give me presents for Mothers Day.  Exhausting!  It's so hard being a mom.  It just helps when my mom tells me what a great job I'm doing, and gives me gifts, too.  I for sure should have said something to her about how great she is, too, or at least told her about the macadamia nuts.  I'll have to text her.

Then today, I thought of mentioning it when my mom came over to watch my kids, but then I might have been late for my mani-pedi.  And when I got home, I was about to say thanks to my mom for all the stuff she does for me, but she had the house so clean, I just had to take a picture and Instagram it. (Totally lied and said I cleaned all day. Lol.)  By the time I was done kicking my feet up, drinking a Diet Coke in my nice, quiet house, my mom was gone, and so were my kids.

I seriously might have to remember to thank her when I text her to send the little darlings home, either tonight or definitely tomorrow.  I know she has that bad cold and everything, so I shouldn't let her babysit for too long.  Seriously, if she doesn't get better, who is going to drive my girls to tiny tot cheer when I'm out to dinner with my girlfriends?  I hate colds.  So inconvenient!  I tell my mom to take it easy, but she completely ran herself ragged with the kids while we were in Hawaii.  So in a way, it's her own fault.

You know what?  I think I'll just have my dad give Mom the message when he swings by to bring us the orange juice and kale I ordered.  (Don't want to get that nasty cold!)  Better yet, here, I'll just put it on the blog:

Mom, ur the best.  Thx!!

Phew, glad that's done.  I'm, like, so busy!  Gratitude:  Check!  Lol.  I think the large text is a nice touch.  One more thing off the list before I go meet with my personal trainer.  It's not like I can afford to be all flabby when we're on our cruise next week.  Dang, I hope my mom gets better before we leave.  If she gives my kids her cold, it's going to be, like, so stressful leaving them.   At least I know my mom can deal with it.  I mean, she raised me and I turned out pretty darn amazing.

Life Span of an Idea

An idea is born.

Me:  "Who wants to drive all the way across the country with me next summer?!"

Ptolemy:  "Me!!  Are we there yet?!"

An idea dies.

Toast or You're Toast

Am I bossy?  I don't think so.  It's just that someone has to steer the boat.  That's me.  I'm the captain, and if the rest of the crew follow my orders, it will be smooth sailing and we will all arrive at our destination safely, on time, even if our socks don't match.

That's how I see it.  The rest of my family just thinks I'm bossy.

Today, I was home alone and caught myself giving orders to and English muffin.  In my defense, I felt that it popped up too soon.  But I can see that anyone who can be overheard saying to an English muffin, "I don't think you're all the way toasted.  Now get back down there until you are,"...might be bossy.  Might.  I'll let you know if I decide you're allowed to agree with me.

Hinges

My students had a recital last night.  I didn't take any pictures because I couldn't bend my arm.  An hour before the recital, I was vacuuming the stairs and the vacuum fell on my elbow and cracked it good, at which point I learned a new lesson.  It's similar to "don't point the knife toward yourself."  It's "don't use vacuum attachments downhill from the vacuum."

It was like a 5-Alarm funny bone situation, with a big knob popping up where the side of my elbow used to be.  Either they kids felt sorry for me, or they were terrified by all the moaning and grunting, because they whipped the house into shape in no time.  I sounded like I was in labor, except that when I gave birth, everything was numb from my chin down and I was full of happy adrenaline and miraculous drugs and the only sounds were laughter and pleasant conversation.  This wasn't quite as much fun.  It's way easier to push a baby out with an epidural than it is to carry a chair down the stairs with one arm dangling at your side, unaided by prescription drugs.  I called my mom and said calmly, "Hi!!!!  I'm just uughghgh getting reeeeeeeADY for a recitaaaaaoooow!!!  My arm huuuuuuuuuurtzjzhzhh."  She rushed over to help me get my shirt off and change into something that didn't hurt my arm as much as what I was wearing.

With my new, bloody ping pong elbow, I had to drive to pick up Ruby at ballet.  Driving with one arm is no picnic, especially when you're making contingency plans for when you pass out at the wheel.  I had to roll down the window because my vision kept including swimming black dots.  Maybe they were Oreo crumbs.  I couldn't tell.  I was pounding back a whole package of Oreos with my good arm, which left no arms for driving.  When I careened to a stop at the red light, teeth black with Oreos, vision black with floating Oreo crumbs, I started to cry.  Then I started laughing.  How about a shout-out for tinted windows, because I'm sure I looked like a rabid donkey who hadn't brushed his teeth ever in his life.  Hee haw, hee haw.  BUT I was wearing a cute shirt of my mom's so I'm sure I looked darling.

If driving is hard with a ping pong ball for an elbow, you should try playing the violin.  The knobby arm just happened to be the one that normally moves up and down, running the bow over the strings.  I was slated to accompany some of my students, and I didn't want to ruin whatever all those video cameras were poised and ready to record for posterity.  I told everyone that I was going to demonstrate "playing in the upper half of the bow," and that's what I did with my three inch range of motion.  Ow.  I have never felt so pathetic.  But we all sounded great. 

Following close on the heels of my recital was Ruby's recital, which started just as my guests were exiting with the last of their refreshments in hand.  We divided the recitals up because of seating limitations.  Plus, two half-hour recitals=half as much time spent per capita listening to someone else's kid "saw away" at the violin.  Ruby's (and Golda's one flute student) were great!  One of Ruby's guitar students brought her dad, who is one of our doctors.  I told him I was going in after the recital to have the ping pong ball x-rayed and he said, "Let me save you a hundred bucks.  You're fine."  All it takes is someone with capital letters after their name to say you're gonna make it, and the healing begins.  Thanks, Dr. Fife! 

So I can't bend my arm.  Big deal.  It's ironic, though, and makes me think I'm being punished by the universe.  Just last week, Scott and I were ruthlessly mocking the Primary song that goes, "I'm all made of hinges 'cause everything bends, from the top of my neck right down to my ends..."  Seriously, does there have to be a song about our joints and how thankful we are to have them so we can bend?

Then I got cupcake frosting on my finger and couldn't get it to my tongue.  Because my hinge wouldn't bend.  Now I get it.  I GET IT, OK, UNIVERSE?  I'm thankful for bending joints. Are you happy now?

How to Organize Your Silverware Drawer in a Jiffy!

First, you will need dividers that fit into the drawer.  You can get them by texting this code to Coco: Ineedtogetorganized.

Second, label all 12 slots "Miscellaneous."  (Label them in your mind.  Actually labeling them would take trips to Staples and special pens, and it would be inefficient and redundant.)

Then distribute the silverware according to the labels.

Once you get used to this new system, it will save you a crazy amount of time.  When you need something, simply go to one of the slots labeled (in your mind) "Miscellaneous" and grab it.  What's all this nonsense about having certain types of utensils in certain sections?  That's just ridiculous.

Poodle Skirt Tutorial

 Step 1:  Borrow a pattern from your resident crafter.

Step 2:  Send a text to an expert seamstress.

Step 3:  Wait.

 Step 4:  Oversee last-minute alterations

 If you do step 3 right, you may also end up with this.

And there you go!  It's "sew" easy!  Stay tuned for more pictures and video of 5th grade '50's Day!

Oh Heavenly Snow Day!

Utahns are pretty cavalier about the weather.  Some of us wear shorts all winter, many of us never put on a coat, even when we shovel snow.  We can afford this blase attitude because the temperature rarely dips into the teens, let alone the sub-zero temperatures our much heartier friends in the midwest endure for days on end in the wintertime.  Here, when the Greatest Snow on Earth favors us with its light, powdery presence, we just admire it from the highway-speed comfort of our SUV's.  We scoop it into high piles with our 4-wheelers, giddy at the chance to use the snowplow attachment to careen around the neighborhood  Then we blaze past the drifts to wherever we would be going if it were 80 degrees and sunny.  Snow does not intimidate us in Utah. 

If anything, our attitudes have become more defiant since the "Storm of the Century" two years ago.  Media outlets were predicting high winds and heavy snowfall, urging everyone to stay home.  Everything in the state was cancelled that night, and...the weather was fine.  Now, we don't believe any forecast.  I drove Scott and Ari to the airport during the huge windstorm last year, the one where our power was out for four days and the golf course down the street lost over 400 trees.  I remember commenting as I struggled to keep the tires on the freeway pavement, "Geez, what's the deal with all the overturned semis?!"  Utahns must have special blinders that make us incapable of seeing and believing bad weather.

That's why, driving Golda to ballet in a blizzard yesterday, I remarked, "Look at this charming snowfall.  It's so cozy!"  Two hours later, driving to pick up Golda and drop off Ari, her friend and Xanthe, I was still thoroughly enjoying our beautiful winter storm.  "It's so pretty out, girls!  Ooh, car off the road.  Must be an out-of-stater.  Have I told you how people in Indiana don't know how to drive in the snow?  Yep.  One inch and everyone is driving into a ditch.  OK, hold on, I'm sliding and I'm going to run this stop sign.  Ari, did you bring your ballet shoes?"

Well, the storm was a tiny bit worse than I thought.  Golda in her leotard, Ptolemy in his pajamas and me in my painting clothes had to wait at the library for the girls' ballet classes to end because we couldn't make it back up the hill until the snowplows had been out.  While Golda did homework online, I read to Ptolemy and fielded texts from Marlene and Jennie, offering to rescue us if we were stuck anywhere.  Thanks!  But by the time ballet ended, the plows had been up Crestwood Road and we were able to make it up the hill, slipping and sliding all the way.  Our neighbor, Jim, had plowed our cul-de-sac from the top right to and including our driveway, so we drove right home and into the garage.  The neighborliness here might be another contributor to our stubbornness.  We know we will bail each other out, whether it's weather or whatever.  No need to stop, assess or slow down!

That's why it was almost a miracle when school was actually cancelled this morning!  The busses couldn't get around, so they called it off.  This almost never happens.  I remember coming home from school in an East wind in second grade when I literally had to hold onto a fence to keep from being blown away.  Needless to say, everyone was overjoyed at the prospect of being snowed in!  We were so happy, I immediately set out for Downeast to buy some cheap bedding for my new project, while Ruby went to babysit for a friend while she drove into Salt Lake.  Busses may not be able to navigate the snowy roads, but that wouldn't stop regular civilians. 

My jaunting around in the blizzard came to a halt when my car almost came to a halt on the way home from Yogo Togo.  (What, a fro-yo craving isn't an emergency?) The snowfall had escalated and the plows had slowed.  I had to use every bit of my extensive winter-condition driving skills to coax my car up the steep bend by Crestwood Farms, where someone always takes out the pasture fence when it snows.  We made it past all the cars lodged in snowdrifts, safe and sound into the garage.  I was so relieved, I think I just might act like a Hoosier and stay home.  It's better than acting like a Hoosier and driving off the road.  For today, I will obey Mother Nature when she says it would be foolish to go out.  This time, I think she's right.

*Disclaimer:  This was Southern Indiana.  I'm sure you northerners are snow pros. :)

I Propose...

WHEREAS Christmas Break started and ended mid-week, causing it to seem shorter than it actually was, and
WHEREAS it goes against the laws of nature to go back to school on a Wednesday, especially when the majority of the pupils have been blissfully unaware of what day of the week it is for some time now, and
WHEREAS the elements conspire against productivity with their foggy, icy and cold nature, and
WHEREAS we have an abundant supply of fudge, thumbprint cookies, pinoche and hot chocolate to sustain us well into the spring, and
WHEREAS it would be folly to go to the gym at this time of year, due to seasonal crowds, and
WHEREAS everyday business should not be conducted in the immediate vicinity of twinkle lights, which still light up our domicile and our street 24 hours a day,

THEREFORE it is proposed that the commencement of 2013 be postponed until next Monday.  In the interim, no person shall be allowed to check anything off a list, touch a musical instrument, break a sweat, set a goal or turn down junk food.

All in favor, say aye.

You Can't Make Me

I'm mad.  I wrote a whole bunch of stuff on my New Years Eve post and it's all gone.  I can't imagine where it went.  And it was intriguing, too, about how we all got sick after Christmas and how it was so relaxing.  And how Scott and I suddenly had a spontaneous New Years Eve party, and how I saw that cool Harvard Law, Just Kidding shirt on Nor's blog, and then Trajan ordered them for us to make my dad laugh.  Where did all my drivel go?

And I'm also mad because stupid real life starts tomorrow and I still have chocolate to eat.  I was sitting in a hot bath, eating cookies, when I looked down and there was an enormous insect on my thigh!  I freaked out and flailed around, trying to escape the deadly beast, when I realized it was a piece of a gingersnap.

When you're mistaking cookie crumbs for deadly insects, you know it's time for the vacation to end.  But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.  I would really rather stay home and make pillows with the kids, never out of reach of a plate of fudge.  I would rather it snow those big flakes all day long while we stay inside in flannel and mix things with egg nog.  I would rather my tiny baby nap dreamily in her Christmas sleepers than go and grow a whole 'nother year older.  I would rather spin our new world globe and google airfare just for fun than venture out into the world where you have to take off your slippers and put on real shoes.

I'm so mad.  My new years resolution is to be more of a jerk, and I'm going to start the minute I see a homework packet.  No, I'm going to start now.  I'm not kidding.  I can't believe, just when we found nirvana, we have to leave.  Who is going to stay here in this magical land and finish off the Coke nog and the peanut butter balls?  Did you hear me?  There are PEANUT BUTTER BALLS STILL LEFT!  I WON'T GO!  I WON'T GO!!!

Dear Santa

At our house, kids have to be resourceful sometimes, if they want to eat.  Freestone's plate of cookies for Santa reflects our lifestyle perfectly.  Next to a plate of cookies pilfered from Grandma's house is a note that says,
 "Dear Santa, Thank you for getting everyone on earth gifts.  
P.S. If you want milk, get it from the fridge.  
Love:  Dopps
P.P.S. You can also get Coke

We wish you all a Christmas that is just right for you.  Merry Christmas!

Just Desserts

MMmmmmffffrrh.  Tejlk sjsk  skdl pwoe.

Oh, sorry, I was eating potato chips.  I have SO much Christmas junk to eat, I don't have time to stop.  There's caramel corn and cookies and candy cane bark and something made of almonds coated in sugar, and that's just what I see from here.  Oh, and the bag of Clover Clubs keeping me company.  I needed something to cut through the sugar, and I thought grease would do the trick.  Last night for dinner, I heard myself telling Ptolemy that he had to eat a bite of his deep-fried bean burrito before he could have egg nog.  This was while his mouth was full of orange sticks.  I just feel like I'm asking too much of my kids.

That's why I had fudge for breakfast.  I had to.  There are so many goodies crying out to be eaten, and I'm the only one around here who likes walnuts, so the fudge was solely my responsibility.  It's a big job, being in charge of consuming all these confections, but WE CAN DO HARD THINGS.  The hardest is when someone brings a plate of something really good, something you just KNOW the kids are not worthy to eat.  It's just tough hiding in the garage eating all of it yourself so that the unwashed masses don't snarf up a handful of See's chocolate or a big block of artisan cheese without thinking how good they are.  Moms have to make so many sacrifices.  It's cold in the garage, but those gifts must be properly enjoyed.

I have a stash in my car, a stash in my closet and some really chocolatey things in the pantry on the top shelf.  I could ask my family to help me enjoy all these neighbor gifts, but they do so much already.  I'm just trying  to be a good mom.  *sigh*  We take on so much.  And we get so little recognition.  Just once, I'd like someone to say, "I've seen how much fudge you were able to consume in less than twenty minutes.  And after you ate that whole plate of cookies, too.  I just want you to know, I think you're doing a great job."

Sure, other moms know how hard it is, but their mouths are full too.  They can't take the time to praise me for my efforts, especially since they're hiding out in their garages, tirelessly chipping away at their own pile of divinity.  And Scott just doesn't understand, although he did try last night to drink a whole quart of egg nog and polish off some peanut brittle, just so I wouldn't have SO much to do the next day.  Thanks, honey.

Well, I'd better get back to work.  I have a big tub of white-chocolate-covered popcorn that I don't want my kids to have to worry about.  I just want it to be taken care of when they walk in the door.  I even have plans to make and consume a batch of nanaimo bars.  I guess I'm an "Extra Mile" type person.  What can I say?  I'm a giver.  You're welcome.

Intervention

I don't CARE about spelling!

 Full of hot air.  Always trying to come up with an instrument that is easier than violin.

Math worksheets are not supposed to be entertaining.  Freestone, did you hear that?  Here is another one of Freestone's math worksheets.  The first question, all four multiple choices are circled.  Notice the answers on the second and third questions:  "bla bla bla" and "ya ya ya."  On the last question, where it says, "Using only the following shapes,"  Freestone made up his own shapes.

Um, I am sensing what my dad would call a little too much hubris.  (I love this definition:  Hubris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις, means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence or capabilities.)  Yep, that's our boy.  And math isn't the only area where Free's Devil-may-care attitude is showing up.  He got two out of 15 on his ENGLISH spelling test last week.  I told him he can't look at a screen until he gets 100% on a spelling test, and that includes Harry Potter on the Kindle.  So last night I gave him a pre-test.

rael rode.
areport.
anythig.
make-beleave.
beakfast.

(It reminds me of an old BYU joke where - here's the abridged version - a football player is talented, but SO dumb, BYU says, "OK, if you can get one letter right in a spelling word, you can stay on the team.  Spell coffee."  The football player says, "K-A-U-G-H-Y."  I think it was after my dad told this joke at Nana's house that Nana banned all talk of politics, sports and religion, and my dad started cutting out and wearing newspaper headlines on his forehead whenever the caption was something like "Utah defeats BYU.")

I have to hand it to the kid, he has gone to town on his spelling this week.  Any time he wanted to do something fun, I would give him a pre-test.  Last night, he finally got all the words right.  Oh, so he CAN spell.  Hmm.  Gud gob, Enotseerf.  (Yes, that is how he spells his name.  Backwards.)

Ari Shines

 On my way out the door to pick up Xanthe from ballet, I said to Scott, "OK!!  When they bring Ari home, have her RUN over to the school!!  Make sure she's in her choir outfit!!  I'll pick up Golda from marching band on my way home!!  Tricia is bringing dinner!!  I'm taking the kids with me to get a flu shot in the band room!!  I'll explain that later!!"

He said, "Why do you always act like it's an emergency?"  Then he proceeded to entertain the whole family by imitating me barking out information and commands.  I guess I do it because when I talk in a normal voice, Scott doesn't remember anything I say.
 "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to take the girls to the church.  I just told you that.  And Ptolemy is in the tub.  SCOTT!  PTOLEMY IS IN THE TUB!!  WATCH HIM!!"
"OK, Ptolemy is in the tub. Do you think I'm stupid or something?...Where are you going?"

Anyway, Scott stayed home helping Ruby convalesce last night while Tricia and I took Ptolemy and Xanthe to the choir concert.  (No, Ari was not wearing her ballroom outfit.  ha ha.  She even took off her black leotard so it didn't show through the white shirt.  Good thinking, Ari!)  The word that best describes the choir concert is delightful.  Cute songs, great kids, folding chairs in an elementary school lunch room.  This is the American dream.  And it was fun to have Aunt Tricia here all the way from Miami, just to hear Ari sing.  We talked about the school and reminisced about the years when my brothers and cousin Sarah and I went to school there.  My grandparents donated the land the school is built on, so my grandfather Bill was exceedingly proud when all four of his grandchildren were at school there at the same time, me in 6th grade and Sarah in kindergarten.  Bill was so proud of us, and proud to see the school built on the site of the old cherry orchards.

I took a rather lengthy video of one of the songs.  I like it though, because it encapsulates so many events we have taken part in, right in this very cafeteria, from the first year the school was built.  I like Xanthe's fabulous smile, Ptolemy's naughty little voice, Tricia doting on Xanthe.  Life is good.  Life is good.

Ding Dong!

Freestone was assigned to bring a dozen cookies to Scouts.  I told him I would make the cookies while he was at school, but he said it wouldn't "count" unless he helped.  So we got up early and made cookies before school.  Chocolate chip cookies that did not contain eggs (because we didn't have any) but were covered in candy cane sprinkles.  Ruby questioned the wisdom of putting red and white candy-cane-shaped sprinkles on chocolate chip cookies, but I told her, "They're for nine-year-old boys."

Well, I was wrong.  When Freestone got home from Scouts, I asked him if the cookies were yummy.  He snarled crossly, "We didn't get to eat them.  We put them on plates and doorbell-ditched old people with them."

Or, as the leaders probably described it, "doing service for our elderly neighbors."  I hope none of the "old people" minded the sprinkles.

Models

This is Freestone's math test.  It says, "Create a model to represent how many bracelets Jenny could be wearing."  I like the model.  I think it was probably supposed to be a graph, but I like Jenny the stick figure.

Train Wreck

I went to Ballet West's Nutcracker last night with Golda and Ruby (because we just can't get enough of it!).  Peggy Wheelwright, a violin teacher, had her group performing in the lobby before the ballet.  They were all dressed in matching pink-and-black holiday dresses and suits, and they sounded very good.  Even the tiniest ones were cranking out the holiday standards, embellished by the taller and more experienced players with their riffs and turns.  Ruby commented, "If that's not Suzuki, I don't know what is."

The well-mannered, buttoned-up little musicians were exactly what I had in mind for my little herd of kids, before I had kids and still knew everything.  I can't say we're there yet, but I can say with confidence that we probably never will be.  We had to put together an ensemble for Golda's Family Flute Recital.  Her teacher suggested Scott on the bells, but really, for as much money as we spend on lessons, someone in the Dopp family should be able to come up with a few measures of Bring a Torch Jeanette Isabella without having to resort to Golda and a one-man bell choir.

You would think!  After procrastinating for most of November, I finally figured out an arrangement that seemed pretty painless for everyone.  That's when the quarreling broke out.  Golda and Ari both wanted to have the melody the entire time.  I remember enough from six semesters of music theory to know that 120 measures of flute and cello playing in unison, or an octave apart, is not good harmony.  I repeatedly explained to Ari that this arrangement is for a flute recital and it's OK for her not to be the star.  Nothing I said had any impact on her thought process.  She plays for 16 measures and pouts for 104.

Golda, in a similar vein, keeps saying, "Maybe Ari could stop like, three measures sooner."  Ruby, on the other hand, finally admitted that she was playing badly on purpose in hopes that I would kick her out of the project.  Freestone has been a good sport, but Ptolemy and Tziporah add way too much screaming to the mix.  Xanthe has managed to stay out of the fray on this one.  Her piano skills are not quite advanced enough to accompany this bickering bunch.

Scott caught some of our little practice on camera today.  Fortunately, he missed the rehearsal where I was shouting, "Just do what I say!  I'm the one with the music degree!"  And he missed a whole segment of Ari playing really loud, trying to just take over the melody by brute force.  He missed a lot of arguing about who isn't counting and who needs to practice more and who stole Ari's wallet.  (Huh?)  He missed Freestone wandering off every time he had a rest.  What the camera also didn't record, because it never happened, was a whole family of young musicians in matching outfits with squeaky-clean hair, playing beautifully in harmony and complimenting each other in British accents.

Curse reality!  I'm hoping for a Christmas miracle tomorrow at the recital.  Worst case scenario, Ari can just play the whole song alone.  You know what would have been better?  Scott playing the bells.

Remembering Star

Do you see that Schnauzer in the middle of my neighbor's lawn?  So did I.  It was early in the morning one day after our neighbors, whom we really like, had already complained about our dog coming over to their yard.  I went outside and saw Star, getting ready to you-know-what on the neighbors' lawn!!  I called her and she wouldn't come.  That made me mad, so I shouted urgently, trying not to draw attention to myself or the dog.  I was so mad that Star wouldn't respond to me, I started tearing across the street screaming at her.  So much for not drawing attention to myself.  I got halfway across the gravelly road in my socks and realized that "Star" was a granite boulder.  I turned around and went home with my tail between my legs.  Inside, Star was obediently, patiently waiting for me.  I petted her and she was happy.  She didn't know I was dumber than a rock.

I miss Star sometimes, even though it's nice not having a dog.  Whenever I look across the street and see that boulder, I smile.  I remember what a good dog Star was, and I'm glad the neighbors have that rock to remind me of our faithful, furry friend...just without the feeding and walking.

Just a Regular Day

Ruby injured herself at dance and had to go to the doctor.  Not unusual; kids injure themselves and get sick with surprising regularity, although when you times that by seven, I always feel like I must have Munchhausen Syndrome when I take them to the doctor, I'm there so often.

This time it was our favorite orthopedic, who x-rayed Ruby and found her kneecap out of place and ligaments thrashed.  While all of this doctor stuff was going on, I was performing my own little one-woman show called "You Brought Two Babies to the Orthopedic Surgeon's Office?  Are You Stupid?"  I changed one diaper and - in the interest of the air quality in the office, stuffed the dirty diaper in a rubber glove (from a dispenser on the wall) and buried it in my purse.  Seconds later, Ptolemy had to be rushed to the bathroom, where we had just made a successful deposit maybe ten minutes earlier.  The second visit wasn't as successful and resulted in a pair of poopy undies wrapped in several layers of paper towels and stuffed under the gloved diaper in the bottom of my purse.  Just a totally normal event, followed by Ptolemy falling off a chair and Tizzy choking on a gum wrapper while the doctor explained the results of the x-ray to me.

From the doc's office, dragging a kid going commando who had colored with a Sharpie all over his legs, a hungry baby and a dancer with her leg in a brace, I went to teach my classes.  On the way out the door, I instructed my kids to have "Cereal and Fresh Peaches!!" for dinner.  Later I continued on my trajectory of drop offs, pick ups, homework and more teaching.  I had just dropped Golda off at flute at 9:00 pm when I looked at my calendar and noticed I had a get-together at Yogo Togo with my band committee.  Since I had fifteen minutes before I had to pick up Ruby from Nutcracker (of course she went with a damaged knee.  You want her to get kicked out??), I stopped by Yogo.  After greeting my buddies, I opened my purse to get my yogurt money.  It was then that I remembered the surgical glove containing the poopy diaper AND, because that's not enough, the paper-towel-wrapped underwear AND an ice pack, leaking on the referral form for physical therapy. 

Just a completely normal mom, hangin' out with my friends at the local yogurt joint with a purse full of crap.

What's in your purse?