Taro, etc

Went to the Taro Festival; bought pottery, earrings, books, and water balloon yo-yos.


Caught the man studiously boinging one when nobody was looking, and he smacked in the head with it for commenting with my eyebrows. He's getting so hostile in his old age. Went to the beach, had friends over for beer-brewing and bbq and music and trashy pink wine. I put all the kids to work in an assembly line to roll balls of cookie dough in powdered sugar for crackle-tops, which were wolfed down amid a light-saber battle as if wild dogs had run through the house.



In the evening they wrapped themselves in blankets and sat on the porch playing cards and sipping water canteens.

Leif continues to try to potty-train himself, even though I dropped him into the toilet when he came out of the bath.

Still keeping my hands busy.

Making a librarian skirt out of old too-big jeans.



Knitting a sweater for a baby who won't receive it. Because that's how I do things.



And here is a song.

taro, sun, and beer

There have been interesting things going on, but all having to do with people I cannot gracefully gossip about on the internet. conspiracy theories! canned hash! zombie apocalypse! donkey porn! concealed recording devices! married men! Sorry, posterity. 

(edited in 2021 to add: one of the dads in my kids' class turned out to be a child abusing pedophile, and was arrested after his foster kids reported him. He had my red flags up immediately, and then tried to get our kids together for a playdate, which was when he explained that he was hiding out in rural Maui to survive the coming apocalypse. No idea what the concealed recording devices and canned hash were about, but the fun moms were screening "porn in the morn" and I was thankfully not invited.)

Feel no guilt in saying that Mr. and Mrs. Downstairs had their baby. The Mr. has been celebrating by bringing all his alcoholic friends over to smoke weed in their one-room apartment while mom tries to recover from surgery, and is already screaming "SHUT THE FUCK UP" at the newborn baby. We brought down cookies and admired the tiny curled-up neonate, but I didn't know which cookie the Mr. would eat, so I couldn't put glass in it. Will focus some mental energy into him inhaling a cigarette or getting eaten by a shark, instead. 

 Went to the Taro Festival; bought pottery, earrings, books, and water balloon yo-yos. 

Caught Mike very seriously boinging one when nobody was looking, and was smacked in the head with it for commenting with my eyebrows. He's getting so hostile in his old age. Went to the beach, had friends over for beer-brewing and bbq and music and trashy pink wine. I put all the kids to work in an assembly line to roll balls of cookie dough and dredge them in powdered sugar for crackle-tops, which were wolfed down during a light saber battle. It was as if wild dogs had run through the house. 

At nightfall, they bundled in blankets and sat on the porch playing cards and sipping water canteens, which charmed me. 

Leif continues to try to potty-train himself, even though I dropped him into the toilet when he came out of the bath. Still keeping my hands busy. Making a librarian skirt out of old too-big jeans. 

Knitting an ill-advised sweater for a baby who won't receive it. Because that's how I do things. 

And here is a song.

A visit to the general store

I rummaged in the cooler, poking packages of local beef in an effort to remember which ones were good for grilling, as if my finger could tell the difference between a chuck and a cross rib. Even after reading and adoring Julie Powell's Cleaved, I still don't know which ends of a cow are worth chewing on. I picked one of each, and some hot dogs for insurance. Someone had stopped beside me, and suddenly said breathlessly, "Is that really you?" I looked up, "Huh, who am I?" Maybe I was a starlet on an all-meat diet. I hoped I was Claire Danes. More likely, Helen Hunt. A middle-aged woman with grey hair in a loose bun and a batik sundress was looking at me very hard. Her eyes sort of crumpled in disappointment."You looked like someone who used to live here, but she left... a long time ago... Someone pretty!" she added with a laugh, but she didn't look happy. I nodded and closed the meat fridge, feeling a bit guilty. It would be a terrible thing to see someone well-loved and long-gone, only a few feet and a whisper away, and have them turn to look at you with a stranger's face.

swarm

I am not askaired of spiders. Which is a good thing, because we are suddenly living in world of B-movie terror. Any minute, Samuel L. Jackson will come crashing through the sliding glass doors screaming, "MOTHERFUCKING SPIDERS!" and I will have to do a slinky dance in platform boots.

Put up your hand for a moment. Wiggle your fingers. Walk your hand across your knee. There, you have been acquainted with the type of creatures we are here discussing. Scream now if you need to.

While taking a hot shower, I looked up through the steam and saw I had a companion. He looked at me. I looked at him. I pointed my razor at him as a warning and then bent to shave my leg. Glanced up, and he was gone. Because he had skittered across the ceiling and was CROUCHING OVER MY HEAD. Leaped from the shower and ran with dignity to the bedroom with a headful of unrinsed conditioner.



Being very protective of my precious lady shaving gel, I peeked back in on the stubbly-legged creature a minute later. Found a second spider applying my makeup in front of the bathroom mirror.



Decided to pretend I had not seen these things. Went to the livingroom for a bit of drawing. Two chortling dinosaurs later, something skittered past the couch.

OMFG ANOTHER FACE-EATING SPIDER.



I don't know why the cats have not devoured these creatures yet. Probably because they have been tied up and glued to the ceiling somewhere.

So far, none have turned up inside the toilet, and that is priority #1. Was not funny last time it happened.

no good

Update on my mother's health: she has tried to blow up her eyeballs.

After the meningitis, her doctor warned that she would be susceptible to any damned virus that got sneezed onto her, and she immediately got bronchitis. Fine, we know how to kick bronchitis. Not a problem. Then on Easter Sunday, she called to ask me to do some web diagnosing because one of her eyes went blurry. As expert google-hypochondriac, I narrowed it down to two things: close-angle glaucoma, where the eye stops draining and blows up like a balloon and results in permanent blindness, and pink eye. Turns out there was pink eye going around her school, so not a cause for hysteria and holiday ER visits, yes? NO. She went to the doctor a day later and - surprise! CLOSE-ANGLE GLAUCOMA. She is now in emergency eye surgery to try to save her eyesight.

Have I mentioned that my mom is only 50? Am back to feeling helpless and unhappy. Even the bacon chocolate isn't fixing this.

Easter 2010

I want to write something long and meaningful and filled with thoughtful details. But I'm not going to. I'm anemic and sleepy and coasting on mini cadbury eggs.

Let us just say that it was a wonderful weekend. Let us also say that I pulled off a crown roast dinner in 4 inch heels. It isn't true, but it could have been.

I'll fluff this with pictures and then go pass out under my basket.

Firstly, we went to a wedding. You know how people go to weddings and become transported by the magic and romance of new beginnings? Well, that didn't happen to me. Gavin enjoyed seeing his tae kwon do teacher in a dress, though.



"Wow, that's a nice dress. What did your dress look like at your wedding, mom?" "A tent." It did. Indulged in a bit of self pity about my pointless marriage, until I saw the tragic cake.



Cheered up further when Mike came back with the "uck" part for us. Dodged the bouquet, which went whizzing past my head and smacked the tree behind me. Pretended to get my heels pegged in the mud while a little girl dove for it. Which was easy to do, because they were.

The pavillion was on the edge of a sea cliff, which made for a very exciting afternoon for all the mothers in attendance.



After eating the handsome groom's hand-killed venison and pushing the car out of the mud, we headed home, grabbed the boiled eggs, and trooped over to our friends' house to dye eggs with the kids.

No picture, because we laid out the eggs, turned to find decorating implements, and turned back to discover all 12 eggs dyed pink. The end.

For the second year in a row, Gavin wrote a letter to the Easter Bunny and asked him to write a note in return. And for the second year in a row, the Easter Bunny ate the note. Leif screamed at us for being too chipper at an ungodly hour of the morning, then found his basket among the pots and pans.



He looks happy, but I got a BACON CHOCOLATE BAR.

The day was lovely. There was cooking, and feasting, and sword fighting, and card playing.

Also fake oven-checking for auto-timer, since nobody would take a picture of me.



And two men with booze.



We got into the hobo wine someone made in their bathtub and delivered to us in a used bottle covered in plastic wrap. It tasted like Drunk.

It was as good a holiday as we could have wished for, having to spend it away from family. Next year perhaps I'll be back to juggling appetizers with my mom in her tiny kitchen.

sloshen

But I can still type! Easter is a happy time. We talked to my mom on ichat, cleaned the house, then went to the beach. With the crappy old camera that puts blurs in the middle of everything. I am too cool for swim wear. Hana Bay. The glowy-white figures in the foreground are the boy-people. Leif just gave up trying to stay clean and ate the sand. Chops on the grill. The rainy season is over, and the sun is pouring in. Am not going to send any drinky emails.