International Relations Are a Gas

Remember: you heard it here first.

Kid: Coop says that, in America, when you get to be around nine, you really start to fart a lot. From my own research, I would estimate that, here in Canada, it's more like when you're ten.

Newtonian Midget Physics

"An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force."

Newton never met my child. I WOULD GIVE SERIOUS MONEY TO BE DELIVERED THE OUTSIDE FORCE THAT CAN MAKE HIM STOP MOVING AND GO THE HELL TO BED. 

That is all.  

Valentine's Day for Middle (Grade) Management

Kid's Valentine's Day celebration at school is being turned into Validation Day because that's where we have ended up here in the twilight of history AND because the kids are out of school on the big day. So here we are, an hour past bedtime, making valentines, everyone covered in glue and fur and bits of foil and tape and sad sadness that once again we are the last-minute crew who will not make the final shuttle off the planet before the Apocalypse. In this case we will at least have enough caramel Kisses to last until the weekend, at which time I assume even the Four Horsemen will take a break and maybe party a little, share their chips with the damned.

I digress. At what point did Kid abandon his dream to be a cartoon-drawing astronaut and begin apprenticing as the personnel manager for a cardboard box factory?

In case you can't read it, it says "You are quite clever and do an effective job."

I can't wait for Thursday, when I am sure to receive a box of sharpened pencils or perhaps some paper clips, with an encouraging admonition to "persist."

Wake-up Call

At nine this morning, I felt weary again (being up for a full 15 minutes can do that to a girl of advanced years), so I made a simple request: that Kid and I postpone our Scrabble game for another 30 minutes. We agreed that he would come shake me at 9.30.

At 11.15, the phone rang, and I woke up. When I asked Kid why he had let me sleep so late, he crawled out of his beanbag chair and patted my head, smiling benevolently, lovingly, understandingly, and said:

"I decided I didn't want you interfering in my business."

The Wordy Metalsmith

I've hit a dry spell in my book's progress. I try to pretend it's not happening, but in the last two weeks I've come to a standstill. I think the editor part of my brain is pissed off at the writer part.

WRITER: Wheeee! I am a genius! Look at what I thought up!
EDITOR: I don't like it..
WRITER: WAAAAAAAH. I think I will become a sheet-metal worker.

Cause THAT makes sense.

I checked out a bunch of Maker sites and SAIT.ab.ca to see how long it would take to learn how to work with sheetmetal. Then I decided I would probably be happier working with precious metals, so I checked out the BFA in Jewelry at the Alberta College of Art. Which led to Pinterest, as all things do. Two hours later, I was no farther along in my work, but I had amassed quite the archive of mushroom-focused movie art, found out where in London a particular Gucci velvet smoking jacket was marked down to just three kabillion dollars, AND began an appreciation of hammered copper as wall art that led to me sending a fan letter to a Finnish coppersmith.

Who wrote back. Like 11 pages wrote back. She's hit a dry spell in her progress as a beater of copper and all she can think of to do is become a writer.

We're meeting in Denmark this spring to discuss a partnership.

The Last Chocolate in the Box

This afternoon, I reached absent-mindedly into my desk drawer while I was working (i.e., surfing Pinterest for ancient Greek jewelry) (fine, and also for "silver hair") (also badgers) and my fingers brushed a horror: the last of the Yuletide Mon Cherie. I get mine from Germany, where they are filled mit das booze, as they say. I used to beg for, and hence receive (Christmas is an oddly fraught holiday at our house), Bernard Callebaut's chocolate-covered cherries. Guaranteed to leave a mess on your chin, your decollete if you have such a thing, and innocent bystanders. Delicious but dangerous. Also: freakin' expensive. Seriously, for the price of 12 of those suckers, Santa purchased 88 of the German delicacies.  Which, if you're paying attention, means that in 29 days I have eaten 88 boozy chocolate cherries.

Some women would be ashamed of themselves.

I am not one of these women.

336 days, 3 hours, 27 minutes til Christmas.

Monopoly is a Home Wrecker

Me: "Goodnight, angel. I love you."

Kid: "I'm not 100% certain how I feel about you right now."