Back to Marshmallows

I'm pretty good at being poor.

When I was in university, I had no money. I was a scholarship kid, letting random organizations financially reward me for being smart. My first year ended up costing me a total of $63. This included my phone bill. I've never been handed fistfuls of dollars by mommy and daddy or trust funds when times got tough.

(I'll never let my mom live down the summer she sent me $20 when I had a mere $13 left in my bank account. On the bright side, I lost 5 pounds.)

When I was in my third year, I was broke. Really broke. No one knew, because there was no need to stress people out when I wasn't stressed out. God provided. I didn't starve. And I graduated. Happy ending. The only notable moment of poverty-induced unhappiness was a trip to my local grocery store. I was craving sugar. Desperately. It was nonnegotiable: I needed my fix. And I wanted a lot of it.

Sugar is expensive and unnecessary. It's the first thing I'm cutting out of my current shrinking budget. And I understood that then, too. But I needed that quick high. Must have been essay-writing time.

So I bought the largest bag of no-name marshmallows I could find. Pure sugary goodness.

Watch these kids. I understand their pain. Sometimes you just need a marshmallow.

Oh, The Temptation from Steve V on Vimeo.

Soggy Sunday

Boot Umbrella Stand

Song stuck in my head: Raining on Sunday. For a very obvious reason.

Today's adventure with preschoolers involved kazoos. I convinced them we were spies. And then we snuck up on the bad guys and terrified them with our awkward buzz-happy blasts. Very Gideon of us, no?

Quotes of the day:

BOY 1: This is my magical orange. It keeps saying, "Not a chance."

BOY 2: I like bread in my milkshake.

BOY 3: I don't want a cookie. I brushed my teeth really well this morning.

Bottled Water & Dancing Babies: Together at Last

I prefer tap water. AND breakdancing babies. Best of both worlds.

This might be slightly creepy. Or 100% genius. I can't decide.

YouTube Tuesday: Reading Rainbow

I'm in Stratford. But that isn't stopping this blog from posting on its own. And it has a thing for Levar Burton.

The Theme Song

Rhett and Link's Version

Run-D.M.C.

Random Sighting: The Jonas Brothers

If I were 15, I would replace the text of this entry with "Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" Maybe.

As I left church today, I heard a guitar chord echo down Queen Street. Followed by a riff that indicated ridiculous rock-star importance. This was followed by the shrieking of every teenage girl in the greater Toronto area.

There was no mystery. I knew that chord. In fact, I knew that song. And I don't know why.

The Jonas Brothers were around the corner. 

As I made my way through the giggling swarm of ponytails and lipgloss, I couldn't help but grin at the uncontainable enthusiasm for three boys with decent style and impressively thick hair. So I quipped aloud, "I miss Hanson." The man in front of me thought I was hilarious. Um, obviously.

I didn't swoon. Apparently I do have an age radar after all. And 16 just doesn't do it for me anymore. But they've honed an impressive soundcheck presence that almost justifies their rabid following.

Instead of setting up camp among the hyperventilating ones, I nodded my amused approval and made my way home. Is it really just about the music, gals? And was it really just about the music when your mothers fainted over Elvis?

Girls are weird. I won't pretend to exclude myself completely from that sentence.

P.S. Their new album is titled Lines, Vines and Trying Times. I hope they know the rhyming is a little off. (The title also conjures up an awkward image of lines of cocaine, Tarzan swinging from a tree, and a depression-era food stamp. But maybe that's just me.)

P.P.S. If Kevin, Joe and Nick (What, don't you know their names too?!) were to stand on the same stage as Zac Efron and Robert Pattinson, and run their hands through their hair simultaneously, the entire world's teenage-girl population would explode. And they would be more than happy to die.

P.P.P.S. For the random girls who found this blog by Googling "Jonas Brothers in Toronto," Nick was wearing a very nice white V-neck tee. The end.

Act Your Age, Not Your Shoe Size

Two of my favorite fictional precocious children.

BOY: I'm three.
ME: I know. But I always think you're older. You look at me with old-man eyes.

...

BOY: How old are you?
ME: Guess.
BOY: Twenty-eight?
ME: Nope.
BOY: Twenty-nine? Twenty-ten? Twenty-eleven?
ME: Wrong direction.
BOY: Nineteen?
GIRL: One? Two? Three...?

GIRL eventually got it right. Smart cookie.

Country Cutie

Superstar of the day:

Diary of a Wombat

Add this one to the reading list. Preferably the boxed set.

An excerpt:

Saturday

Morning: Moved into new hole.

Afternoon: Rained.

New hole filled up with water.
Moved back into old hole.

And the greatest stuffed animal ever:

From Echidnas On the Loose.
This one is also quite amazing.

Thank you, Stickers and Donuts, for the wombat fun. I'm in love.

Easter Parade

A little boy, let's call him Billy, bounces into church. Instead of his usual flashing-light sneakers, he's wearing black polished shoes. His mom pulls me aside, warning me that his Easter footwear is a little small and he may want to take them off. And then she leaves us to play and talk about Jesus.

At one point in the morning, he makes me imaginary garlic-bread pancakes. Delicious.

Nearing the end of our time together, he decides that he's tired of the other children and sits out of the games. I join him, and we chat about his parents (who he thinks are probably homesick, sitting in the service without him) and Easter festivities.

He swings his feet as he talks. So I acknowledge his fancy kicks.

Me: I like your shoes, Billy.
Billy: I know you do.

Oh, to get away with receiving compliments like that. So unfiltered and unaffected.

I love kids.

(Another little girl took over story time, claiming that the story of Jesus was based on a movie about a lion. Except that Jesus isn't a boy or a girl. Just sort of, but with really bright skin.)

Objectionable Content

I understand that sites such as PluggedInOnline are meant for parents who want to know every possible objectionable word/sight gag/implication in the media their children are absorbing. I watch a lot of TV in my day job, and often catch myself concluding that my kids will not be watching, uh, anything. Ever.

But I'm also pretty sure, that as PG as my life is, this blog would receive plenty of warnings. Because I own sexy boots. And this is a problem for some.

The most recent U2 review:

Album closer "Cedars of Lebanon" includes the disc's sole profanity, an s-word. "No Line on the Horizon" includes a mildly sensual couplet ("Time is irrelevant, it's not linear/Then she put her tongue in my ear"). "Get on Your Boots" repeatedly describes the aforementioned footwear as "sexy" ("Hey, sexy boots/Get on your boots").

Most boggling is that they praise the theme of Keith Urban's "Kiss a Girl" (Um, it's about kissing...and making "a little magic in the moonlight") and then criticize the lyrics "kissing on the porch swing" in another of his songs. I can't keep up. Or figure out which kind of kissing is appropriate.

Focus On the Family and I have been done for some time. It was a break that dissolved into nothingness. Sorry, Dobson and friends, but I need a little more cultural relevancy. And grace. (Actually, when you dissed Mel Gibson, I walked away. Braveheart forever. The truth comes out.)

But thanks for the Ted Bundy interview. It changed my life as an 11-year-old. Porn creates serial killers.

Locker Room Encouragement

A mother is helping her young daughter dry off after a swimming lesson.

MOM: That was an awesome lesson.
DAUGHTER: Thank you for telling me that.

Doing Lunch

When I was quite young, in the first or second grade, I often went home for lunch. But on those days when I chose to stay at school, my mom would put a little note in my lunch bag. It would tell me that she loved me. And so did Jesus. And sometimes a fun sticker accompanied said encouragement.

In university, I worked this little anecdote into a monologue. My prof, an award-winning playwright who shall remain nameless, was quite moved by this. A mother of five, she wished she had done the same. Probably without the Jesus part.

A year or so later, I attended her newest play in Toronto. The lead actress stood on the open stage and told a story about her mother leaving notes in her lunchbox, reminding her that God loved her.

My brother told me to sue. Instead, I chose to be flattered. And greatly amused.

There's a father who takes personalized lunches up a notch or two. He designs a new lunch bag for his kids EVERY DAY. And they're amazing.

Check them out @ Lunch Bag Art.

P.S. I miss my Pound Puppies lunchbox. The one with the gimp strand tied to the handle.

Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my
Whatever happened to my lunchbox?
When came the day that it got thrown away
And don't you think I should have had some say in that decision?

~ John Mayer, "83"

Back to Basics

I spent my morning with eleven preschoolers. Some of whom need a refresher when it comes to New Testament basics.

Teacher: Jesus was a real person.
Little Boy: He was?!
Little Girl: A long time ago.
Teacher. Yes, a long time ago. And then he died....
Little Boy: He did?! He died?! How?!

Marry Me

Adorable.

And pretty much my childhood.



The sandbox. The bike. The jump. The little boy with bad hair....

Yeah, my first marriage ended in the second grade.

Because I Don't Pick Favorites

This is a follow-up post to this one. 

Check out this commercial at 0:35. The doll with the hat.

Her name is Cynthia.*

And that magic heart? It took a lot more than a warm fingerprint. You had to rub it and breathe on it for a good minute. But it was worth it.

I'll grow up tomorrow. Pinky swear.

*Official name: So Innocent Cynthia. She has fans.

Notice how these commercials are a minute long? Kids used to have attention spans. 

Love Is Magic

"My Magic Nursery Baby is the most beautiful baby I've ever seen."

I only had three significant baby dolls growing up. Which was a perfectly manageable number for a very organized fake mother such as myself. I wrote lists upon lists of detailed stats about my dolls, I created daily schedules, I designed report cards for them. In fact, I wrote test questions for them, I took the tests on their behalf, and then I scrawled big red X's where I intentionally got questions wrong. It wouldn't be right to expect my children to be perfect.

I knew what each wanted for lunch. How long an appropriate nap should be. I buckled them into the stroller and took them to the park, hoping people would mistake my fictional family for a real one.

I remember desperately wanting a Magic Nursery Baby. It was a planned non-pregnancy, if you will. I didn't want just any doll. I wanted that one. So my parents, being the psychics that they are, put her under the Christmas tree. And made their little girl an extremely happy one.

I knew she was a girl from the very beginning. Because even though the "love is magic" trick is supposed to reveal the sex, the super-smart kids knew that if there was a tuft of hair sticking out from the gender-neutral bonnet, the doll was female. All boys are bald. It's common knowledge.

I named her Julia. She was quite good at math.

J'aime Capucine

I stole this from my friend Andrew's Facebook wall. Because I'm a thief. But at least I admit it. Because I'm not a liar.

When I grow up, I want to be a cute little French girl with amazing hair. I'm not kidding. Watch. And fall in love with Capucine.

A breathtaking story by Capucine. Starring baby monkeys lost in frightening trees, a witch, crocodiles, a tiger, a "popotamus" and a lion, and even a "tremendously very bad mammoth." There are also magic powers and an orange ring, but sometimes, "something goes amiss."

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

"You decided to be dead in heaven." Ahh. I love her.

source

A Halloween Outsider

In public school, no one knew what to do with me this time of the year.

Halloween is a sticky subject for a lot of Christian families. My parents weren't the sort of sheltering overprotectors who refused to let me exist in the culture around me, but they also were wary of letting me participate in fun little games that seemed to glorify darkness. So on Halloween they often pulled me from school so I could avoid the whole witches-and-ghosts brouhaha. My lunches would still be packed with bite-sized candy. They found ways for me to prance around in costumes. I just escaped a lot of the scary stuff until I was old enough to make my own discerning decisions about trick-or-treating.

Of course, just skipping one day didn't mean that I avoided all things Halloween. Elementary schools thrive on holiday prep, so the week or so approaching the day would be filled with crafts and songs and stories related to black cats and broomsticks. If you had been in my class, you may have not even noticed my clever exits and alternative activities. But I knew I was different. And it was awkward.

Sometimes the teacher would assign me extra work. While the class was laughing and building costumes with Elmer's glue and yarn, I'd be in the library, writing a book report about something non-evil.

Or while the teacher instructed everyone to cut out silhouettes of cats from black construction paper, she would hand me a sheet in brown. "There's nothing wrong with a brown cat, Nadine." My cat was the only one that wasn't bad luck.

Perhaps most uncomfortable was the Halloween assembly in the first grade. My teacher realized that I wouldn't want to participate in my class' Halloween play. Instead of just letting me sit it out (or write yet another book report), I was sent to the special-ed classroom. For a student who ended up spending her entire educational career near or at the top of her class, this was a bit of a blow. But it was probably good for me. What was almost traumatizing, however, was that I had to perform with this small group of students at the assembly. Yes, it was a Halloween song. But my line was changed from "there are witches in the air" to "there are bats in the air." The teacher repeated pointed out that bats are real animals and not necessarily Halloween-specific. Yes, the lazy teacher found a loophole in my Halloween-avoidance request.

So I stood up with a class of emotionally disturbed and developmentally challenged students and sang about bats. There were only six of us. And I'm still not completely sure what the point was. Nor have I made any conclusions as to how I'll address Halloween when I have children of my own. Maybe there's a compromise between the extremes of zombie worship and isolation.

But maybe being set apart is important. Going with the flow wasn't a lesson I needed to learn. And perhaps it's better to be an outsider when you're young. It keeps you thinking for yourself and making decisions apart from the influence of the mindless masses. Maybe my escape from adolescent idiocy can be linked to my Halloweens in the library.

Happy Halloween, all. Save some Smarties for me.

[Dis]belief

Sometimes I have a hard time believing the things people say. I feel like a disillusioned cynic. And I don't like it. But I'm now sure how to remedy this either.

There are some individuals on this planet who could tell me they're related to Kermit the Frog and I would believe them with every fiber of my being. I'd be excited for them. And maybe even brag about their awesome puppet ancestry on their behalf. There are others who could tell me that they had Cheerios for breakfast and I'd walk away mumbling something like, "I bet she doesn't even eat breakfast."

Maybe some people cry wolf too many times. Maybe I've grown weary of the runaround and the partial truth. Or maybe I just have a BS radar.

(BS = bogus stuff. Obviously. Because children might be reading this.)

When I was little (6 or so), I didn't like my best friend's dad. There was no reason for this outside of a child's intuition. BOY and I would be playing in the living room when MAN would walk through the door. In that very instant, I'd become uncomfortable. And I didn't know why.

And then one morning, MAN woke up and told his wife that he no longer loved her. That he wanted to live with her as a roommate, but see other women.

Somehow I knew all along. He creeped me out because he had creep in him. I sniffed out his inner bad guy.

Some time later, my mother told me that BOY frequently cried himself to sleep. That was so foreign to me. I'd never been devastated to the point of being inconsolable.

Tonight, I heard some devastating news. And I didn't believe a word of it. I don't know if I'm honing in on my inner-child radar of innocence, or if I'm channeling my inner bitter old lady who doesn't trust anyone anymore.

Sigh.


FYI: MAN was kicked out. Because his wife didn't want him dating other women. Understandably. Last I heard, he's still with wife #3. But that was years ago.

I have no idea what happened to BOY either. I hope he recovered from his cooties.

Third-Grade Book Report: Little Women

I found a book report in a stack of childhood memorabilia. Apparently I read Little Women in the third grade. I was pretty much the most brilliant child ever.

Below are my 8-year-old thoughts on the book. Unedited.

The main setting in the story is in the cozy little home of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. And there was Meg's house when she was married, which is called "Dovecot." There was the big and roomy house where Jo stayed in New York for 6 months. There was also Mr. Laurence's mansion.

Beth - kind and willing to give and share. She is loving and sensible. She's wonderful to be with.

Meg - likes to be by herself and act like herself. She's a loving and kind mother.

Jo - always wants money. She makes her own clothing. Tries to be as kind as she can.

Amy - joyful most of the time. Young and gentle. Laurie can only fill the hole in her.

It started on Christmas, when the whole household was cozy. But it didn't stay that way. In the story, their bond dies, Meg gets married, has twins, Beth dies so everyone is upset. Their father comes home from war, and Amy gets married so Jo is left all alone. She goes to New York from Christmas to June. She meets old Mr. Bhaer and falls in love with him and Jo gets married to him.

I rated the book a ten out of ten. Which I still would, although for wildly different reasons.

"Their bond dies."
"Jo always wants money."
"Laurie can only fill the hole in her."

Apparently I've always have a flair for the dramatically (and occasionally inaccurate) written word.

The above picture is the exact version sitting on my bookshelf. It was my mom's. There are a few black and white pictures inside, but she colored them in with pencil crayons when she was a little girl. She was a good colorer. In case you were wondering.