Kindred Spirits

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This is the cover of the Anne of Green Gables book I had.She’s a hottie, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Y’all. I am very picky.
I don’t like my potato salad unless it is made with Hellman’s mayonnaise. (No, this post was not sponsored by Hellman’s. Call me? Hellman’s?? We can work something out, K?)
I don’t like books that have too many dialogue tags. “They are tedious,” she said, tediously.
I only like spring days that still have a bite of cool in them. Otherwise there’s sneezing. And it’s not the cute, delicate lady-sneezing like a baby bunny. My sneezing is wet-gorilla sneezing.
Apples must be tart. This Red Delicious nonsense is just a dumbing down of apples.
And, classic books don’t translate well into film. In general. I mean, have you SEEN The Scarlet Letter? I’m talking the Demi Moore version. Enough said.
I have read every one of the Anne of Green Gables series, MULTIPLE times. And, yes, I did allow the 1985 television adaptation (with an awesomely cranky Marilla by Colleen Dewhurst).
So, when the great Netflixes informed me that a NEW ANNE was coming… I was skeptical. You know when someone says to you, “Hey! I made some chocolate chip cookies!” and just as you take a bite they add, “Gluten, egg, and dairy free! YOU CAN’T EVEN TELL, CAN YOU.”
You can tell. You can so totally tell.
That’s how I felt about a New Anne.  But, y’all – Netflix has done it right.

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This is a series that is so in tune with my Anne that I nearly cried. Which, as you know, is something a totally dramatic girl would do. This is an Anne that is comical and tragic and gawky,  and at times plain, and at at other times just aglow (when she is least aware of it). She is, in other words, what we girls are. Or me, at least. I do comical and tragic and gawky. I do plain.

I even, every once in a while, glow.
I sat down to start watching this while folding laundry one night because God forbid I ever just watch something without folding laundry. The boys were playing “Smash All the Things” in the other room, but as soon as they heard the television come on, they started sniffing around like the little tv vultures they are.

“Whatcha watchin?” Red asked. “Is it Star Wars? Legos? Something with swords?” I sighed and folded my four hundredth pair of Lego Star Wars underpants. He stared at the screen and then, asked… “Anne of… Green Bagels?”
“No, dear. Shhhhhh. Mommy’s watching. Mommy needs this show.”
We watched, and Blonde, another heat-seeking (i.e. television) missile wandered in, and we all soaked in all the Gables and the Green-ness.

Anne says,  ““Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think.” Anne and I are kindred spirits. She has the same ideas about classic literature and potato salad, I am sure of it. Watch, you’ll see.

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As a Netflix StreamTeam blogger, I get to watch the awesomeness that is Netflix, and chatter about it on Momsie. It’s a great gig.

 

 

Summer is here and I love it.

Guys, I haven’t posted here in like crackamillion years.

Wanna know why?

I shall provide you with a neat graphic:

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Go ahead. Pin that graphic to your Pinterest boards. I dare you.

By the way, I don’t wear a bikini but I didn’t have the patience to try and draw anymore.

So, we have been busy, y’all. The calendar in the kitchen is so loaded down with stuff that I tried to add something to it the other day and it shrank away from me and started weeping. “Go away,” Calendar said, rocking back and forth. “I just want to be alone!”

On Tuesday, we were so busy that by the end of the day, after the boys were upstairs in bed, I found myself looking around in a panic, wondering where my keys were. It’s like when the cool army people jump out of planes, you see? You know… they’re all lined up, jumping out, all “Go GO GO GO!!” – that’s us. We are the army, people. We are being all that we can be.

I’m exhausted.

Ok, granted there has been pool time, and this is when I get to sit in one place for a prolonged period of minutes. I sit there, and then I slowly start to sweat into the plastic back of my chair and it imprints itself all over my white backside. So, then, of course, I go gingerly into the pool and swim around with my head above water, all old-lady paddling, and then get back out. And go sweat again. Sometimes I read. A lot of times I just stare at the blue water and try to remember where it is we are going to next.

By the way, I TOTALLY get it, Mom. You used to take us to the pool? I remember you had a leopard print one-piece swimsuit that was very Mrs. Robinson, except you weren’t really into seducing anyone. You were a good woman.* But the swimsuit still was so Anne Bancroft. ANYHOW… I totally get it. Sitting at the pool, watching your daughters prunitize themselves in the water for hours… You are a saint. We moms, we are SAINTS.

Plus that swimsuit was very cool.

Yesterday, I took Blonde and Red to the pool after some sort of thing they had (I think it was play practice? Because they are in the summer musical? I dunno anymore. I just drive them places and pick them up. I’m a Mom Uber. A MUber, if you will.)

So, we’re at the pool, and I have just head-outta-the-water paddled my sweat off, and plunked myself back down with a book. Red approaches. He’s all wet and drippy and has that peculiar wet-kid walk that is part waddle with his hands all clutched up under his chin. I don’t know why my children walk like this when they go to the pool. It’s like the water makes them all self-clutchy and I guess I should be happy they don’t clutch any other body parts. They look all wet and shrunken, like little wet rabbits, and it’s kind of cute.

ANYHOW.  (Didn’t you miss this? Momsie’s brain while writing is like watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, I tell you.)

So, Red approaches and stands by me, too close, as every seven year old must stand next to his mom, and drips all over my book. “Whatcha doin?” he asks and I bite my face off to not respond with sarcasm.

“I’m… reading. This. It’s a book.” (Ok, that did have a whiff of sarcasm but trust me, people, this was the softer, gentler version.)

Red nods and then asks, “Why aren’t you swimming? Why did you bring THAT *nods derisively towards the book* to HERE *gestures widely to the water.”

I see where he is going with this. His brain cannot understand that I am not in the water the entire time, until I get pruny.

Also, it was adult swim. This is pool-jail for little kids. And here I was NOT SWIMMING WHEN I SO COULD BE.

In other words, I was being glib. I was being all glib about the POOL. This was hard for him.

I tried to explain.

“Honey. I’m an adult. That’s what adults do. We bring books to the pool and we don’t like to get our hair wet.”

He dripped a moment, and nodded, staring off in the distance.

And that’s how my child learned that growing up is awful.

The end.

 

By the way, I took them home and fed them ice cream bars for dinner. This is because I am glib, but I am not crazy. It was necessary.

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*ARE. You ARE a good woman, Mom. The verb tense is important.

Have Yourself a Merry Little- Oh Never Mind.

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So. Christmas is over.

Not really, I know. Christmas is really an all year long thing, as you well realize. But right now, that’s just one Hallmark card short of rubbing it in a little bit. I can’t help it. On December 26 I find myself in a taking down of all the decorations frenzy. Our kitchen seems to offer up only one food group anymore – fudgey items – and I seem to crave… salad. Who knew? If you eat nothing but pie and cheese for a week that spinach might start calling your name?

Also, taking down Christmas decorations is weird. It’s like, I love all the sparkly bits all over the house, but keeping them up just REMINDS me that the sparkly bits will need to come down. It’s like visiting Paris and knowing that in a day or two you will be getting on a plane and ending up in the Newark airport. So, let’s just take down all the sparkly bits now. Let’s squash those hopes of Paris, ca va? Paris is overrated.

My boys greeted me this morning with this nugget: “So, what’s the NEXT holiday we’ve got, Mom? And, are there presents.?”

Speaking of presents, right now I am listening to this:

“Red! RED! Whack the droid with your lightsaber! Use the force. THE FORCE, RED. NO, NOT THAT FORCE, THE OTHER ONE. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, WHACK THE GLOWING CRYSTAL THINGIE WITH YOUR FORCE!”

USE THE FORCE AND THEN RUN AWAAYYYYYYYY!”

Yep. We drank the Kool-Aid. The boys got a Wii for Christmas (we’re only a few years behind on technology. We take it slow here. Just a few months ago both boys were running around with the BOXES to their dad’s iphone pretending they were their OWN phones. It was kind of pathetic. I wanted to encourage them on being so creative and imaginative but I also felt a bit embarrassed about it all.)

And, I know for a FACT that no Jedi would EVER whack ANYONE with the force and then run away. That’s just silly talk.

Also, there’s this rather illuminating bit of marital knowledge: When you tell your spouse, “Really, there is nothing I want for Christmas. Just skip the gifts, ok?” you must remember this later. You must remember that you said it and you believed it about as much as you believe that elves make cookies in trees and that The Walking Dead is gonna have a happy ending. You need to maybe clarify this statement next year like this:

“Ok. I’m going to tell you that I don’t want any presents. But, when it is 7:35 am and I’ve had about four hours of sleep and the boys have reached a sort of unwrapping frenzy that makes you think of really cute sharks circling in the water, trailing ribbons, I might want a small gift. Just a wee morsel. Something shiny. Like four thousand dollars.”

I told the husband “no gifts.” And then, of course, I got him candy, a Popular Science magazine that he will never find time to read, and a gadget that doesn’t work. And for me? Nothing. Nada. He really actually listened to me.

This is so very rare.

Why is it he does not listen to me when I say things like, “Honey? There is a spider the size of New Jersey in the laundry room?  I tried to friend him on facebook, but he says he’s not on social media and could he just eat me instead? COULD YOU COME HERE AND SMUSH HIM????”

Nope, he doesn’t hear me when we are all about to be ransacked by big, hairy legged monstrosities in the laundry room. But he TOTALLY is all, “I’m the best listener EVER when presents are involved.”

My husband says there are too many caveats in marriage. Too many unwritten rules added to the written rules. I tell him that’s what keeps it fresh. Being married to me is your very own Clue game, only no one dies by candlestick.

The only recourse is to eat some of the candy that I had bought him. I am so over wanting salad now. There is peanut butter in the candy so it’s healthy.

So, my afternoon will be spent with a chocolate hangover and that weird, “there is too much down-time now” kind of feeling hanging over me like a needy roommate. On one hand, I want to deal with the roommate by washing all of her clothes and cleaning house from top to bottom. But the other half of me wants to watch my boys’ bludgeon each other with the Force and run in weird circles in that prancy way that Lego Star Wars characters do.  At one point it looked like Obi Wan Lego guy was doing the Hustle.

And… Lego Star Wars has won the battle for now. The force is strong with this day.

 

The More You Know.

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Here are the Things I Learned On Netflix:

  1. British television is superior to American, in every way. All the time. It’s the law.
  2. When I am tired I seem to want to watch cooking shows. They soothe me, somehow. All is right in the world when you watch someone whip up a maple creme filled zeppole. Also, I learned Italian right there! So double bonus!
  3. Nurse Jackie can be watched until 1 am and then the next morning you kind of feel hungover but NO REGRETS.
  4. THE PEREGRINE FALCON CAN DIVE AT A SPEED OF 143 MILES AN HOUR. FOR REALS. YOU HAVE TO WONDER IF THEY FREAK OUT WHEN THEY DO IT.

Ok, I’m not exactly sure on that last one, as a seven year old was the dispenser of the information there, but he would know. Why? Because the boys watch these cuties:

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They love the Brothers Kratt. And, did you know? Chris and Martin are ACTUALLY BROTHERS. And, Chris and Martin LIKE EACH OTHER, at the SAME TIME, WHILE BEING BROTHERS. Amazing.

And so, whenever we watch them, I tend to add my Mom Two Cents after each live-action segment with the Kratts with something like, “Oh look, Martin just let Chris fall and slip in the muddy gator pit but yet THEY ARE NOT FIGHTING ABOUT IT! AT ALL!. Instead, they are smiling and attempting to befriend a gator! And we know there won’t be any blood because children’s programming! Brotherly love!”

Now, Blonde and Red follow me around like a mini Kratts, spouting facts about animals, in a very endearing, if not slightly nutty Kratt-ian way. I’ll be making dinner and one will fly by, and spout at me, in all caps, because that’s their volume setting at all times:

MOM? MOM??? DID YOU KNOW THAT GORILLAS CAN CATCH COLDS?

Or later, in the bath:

ALSO. MOM? A LION ONLY KILLS ABOUT TWENTY TIMES A YEAR.

Or, while drifting off to sleep:

AND? DID YOU KNOW? RATS CAN LAUGH. THEY CAN! WE NEED TO GET ONE AND SEE.

Ok, it’s possible that last fact was not learned through the Kratts. I just always remember my college roommate’s creepy boyfriend who liked to carry his pet around on his shoulder telling me that. It stuck with me, somehow. Things like that do.

This summer on The Netflixes we are learning. All the time. Like, I just learned this from one of my beloved cooking shows, Cupcake Wars:

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I KNOW, RIGHT????

If for some reason, summer is starting to wear a little thin and you would like your children to USE THEIR NOGGINS FOR SOMETHING OTHER THAN WHACKING EACH OTHER WITH LIGHT SABERS AND FIGHTING OVER TEENY TINY LEGOS, then I suggest Wild Kratts.

Or, this option:

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This is also on the mighty Netflixes. AND the narrator? BRITISH. BOOM. DOUBLE BONUS!

Hey, did you know? Ring-tailed Lemurs actually purr when they are content.

YEP, I LEARNED IT FROM THAT SHOW.

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Thank you, Netflix, for all the learning!

Vacation from the Summer Vacation.

Today, I did kind of a dumb thing. Want to hear about it?

Linking up with the lovely Kate at Five Minute Friday today. The theme is:

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Kate’s graphic is so… peaceful. It’s all cute and pink. Look at it. Preshus widdle flowery thing.

So, hey, if you added a bunch of germs and despair and a thermometer or two, then maybe the image would fit what’s going on over here.

It’s rest time at our house. Enforced rest. Rest, but without permission. The kind that just slams you upside the head and says, “SIT DOWN, WOMAN. THAT’LL DO.”

So, I have mentioned that we have been firmly wedged into a summer schedule that is the King of all Summer Schedules Ever! Like, we WIN at Summer Schedules! Our Summer Schedule is the BIGGEST of them all! Our Summer Schedule could EAT your Summer Schedule for Breakfast! It is SOOOOOO the boss of you!

Perhaps, I am delirious. Fevers will do that to you. (This is called foreshadowing, y’all. Cue the scary music.)

Ok, so it seems the Summer Schedule is now the boss of US.

Strep. Both boys. Same time. Duh duh DUH.

Momsie doesn’t feel so good either, but that’s probably because every time my kids get sick I SWEAR I get the same exact thing at the same exact time so somehow, maybe, someone will bring me a cup of apple juice with a straw. I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO BRING ME SOME JUICE WITH A STRAW, PEOPLE. SOMEDAY.

Is that so much to ask?

“But yes, Momsie,” you ask, “What about the stupid thing? We really want to know about that. No one is ever going to bring you juice with a straw. Move on.”

Ok, I never had a fever. And also, my kids are very thoughtful in that they decided to go for the two for the price of one option on the sickness. But in the midst of all of this we have hit the usual end of June event that is known as:

We are Here Together and I am Sick of you.

So, the kids are like REAAAALLLLY cranky. This morning, Blonde yelled at Red about how he was rolling his toy truck across the room, and then Red responded later by telling Blonde that he was eating his cereal wrong. The two of them are just endlessly picking at them with such tenacity they are like little unhappy termites, chewing away at my sanity.

THE VERY FOUNDATION OF OUR FAMILY IS CRUMBING, Y’ALL. ALL BECAUSE OF MY ANNOYING CHILDREN.

So, the dumb thing.

I shall re-enact it for you:

Scene:

Both children are bickering about how to go to the bathroom. I think. I’m not sure. I don’t care anymore.

Red: MOOOOOOOOOMMMM, Blonde is telling me not to go to the bathroom this wayyyyyyyyyy. (Or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t care anymore.)

Me: (For some reason feeling all Dr. Phil about things) Ok. Listen. This is what we need to do here, guys. I think you need to start coming to me when you guys are having an issue. Just say, ‘Mom, Blonde and I are in an argument. Can you help us resolve it?’ And then EVENTUALLY you will remember how we worked it out and you guys will be able to do this all on your OWN!!! Hows that sound?”

Holy macaroni. So dumb. DUMB. Every five minutes. Now, they are not termites chewing at each other – they are chewing at ME.

I know there are ways to help kids with endless picking and bickering and conflict but right now I am living in a reality television show and not the tasteful ones like Amazing Race. Well, really I think that’s the only tasteful one, and it’s not even that tasteful. This is more like the one where two people are stuck out in the wild stark naked. And yes, that is actually a show. On tv. That people watch.

Anyhow, I am now hiding in my office, which is on the top floor and at the very BACK of the house. You have to go past the cat box to get to it. Also, there is a lock on the door.

I give myself about seven minutes of alone time up here before they find me.

Pray for me.

Enforced rest paired with a Mom fail? Not for the faint of heart. But that’s parenting.

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Clearly, I Have the Most Intelligent Children in the World.

It’s nearly MAY, my friends. This is crazy sauce.

School is out in a MONTH. Well, a month and a half, but I always round up to my advantage. Let’s just say I’m a bit excited. Like the time I found out Netflix had added Dirty Dancing to its streaming options, excited.

Like, Patrick Swayze, “The Time of My Life,” hip swivel, finger snapping, right down the middle aisle, kind of excited.

Anyhow.

Summer approacheth! We are going to: go to the pool, ride bikes, you know, all the typical summer things. Popsicles. Air conditioning. Mom swimsuits.  Embracing the cellulite. The perfume of chlorine and sunblock. I AM READY. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER! Let’s do this!

My children, however, are torn. When I informed them both about summer’s quick approach, both were pretty stoked about the pool. But Red is kinda convinced his teacher will be there with him, poolside, doing projects with glitter and paint and other nuttiness. The other, Blonde, gets summer break and all. But also? He expects… projects. Crafts. He wants stimulating learning activities, my friends. He doesn’t call them that, of course, because that would be weird. He calls them: “Mommah, can we make a hydroplane? Like the kind that goes on the water? With glitter? And paint? And, we need to make sure its roomy enough for a pilot and one cat.”

Sure, honey, let me get right on that.

Let my clarify: my children are not weird. They just love homework all time. They live for tri-folded poster boards, people. They like charting things.

Ok, maybe they’re a little weird. But I prefer to refer to them as:

Ridiculously Smart. So Smart They Want to Chart How Many Poopies are in the Litter Box Today.

My house is covered in funnels, rubber bands, and strange bottles of murky liquid left in the sun that is a “Science Speariment.” We live in a gigantic Rube Goldberg creation, and I am forever dismantling “Da MOST important parts!” because, well the last one was utilizing the toilet flusher knob, and it was just kinda gross.

Something like, oh… THIS:

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If we’re going to survive the summer, I better up my game.

And by that I mean:

TELEVISION!!!!!!!

Once again, The Great Netflix has bestowed us with a show that we LOVE.

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I can’t really explain this show. It’s for smart people. You know, like my wonderful children. The show is a fast-paced, funny, often mesmerizing look at how our brain works.

I know, right? This stuff is so educational and fabulous I don’t know why I just don’t pull them out of school and make them watch this all day long.

Just KIDDING. Sort of.

 

So. To review, for those of you who have children who are not mensa bound: this show will still make you watch and then blink, and then tilt your head to the side, turn to your husband, and say, “What the WHAT??? Did you see THAT? This show is better than a gin martini!” (Disclaimer: Meaning, the show makes your brain all hummy and wonky. It literally “messes with your head.” But in a good, non-substance kind of way. You know that’s a post for another day.)

For those of you who have children painfully intelligent? They’ll watch it and then turn to you and say,

“Mommy, my synapses are firing all over da places now. And now I need some omega three foods to restore my DHA.”

“Well, here you go, dear. Here’s a salmon pop. But eat it outside; it smells like cat food.”

Thank you Netflix! You have saved my summer.

 

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It's a great gig.

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, I leave you with this. Because. It’s awesome. Embrace summer! It’s the Time of Your Life, so come in hot.