The puddles are outside. The muddles are in my head. I can't seem to make either behave.
On Sunday, I looked up to see big, fat snowflakes. I looked away, my preferred method of dealing with those things that make me sorry I ever stumbled across them in the first place. Ten minutes later, I heard Ari yell down "it's snowing!" as if I had made it so. I waited awhile, then went up and opened Christopher's bedroom door. It was 2 in the afternoon, or as my sons call it, dawn.
After a brief struggle with consciousness, Christer finally glanced out his window. "Holy crap, is it snowing?" he asked. "It is," I replied. "But then, again, it is November, after all." Rip Van Lazyass got up.
Speaking of Timeshift Theatre, I found this throw away on the election today to be quite hilarious. Someone asked Harper what he thought of the current debate to change succession to the British throne to include daughters. You know, to make if all fair- like, and to stop treating the unpenised like second class citizens. Knowing full well this is a nonstarter - I mean, really, who cares? - I was curious how Harper, that unflusterable man of all seasons would joust such nonsense away.
“The successor to the throne [Prince Charles] is a man,” said Mr. Harper. “The next successor to the throne [Prince William] is a man. I don't think Canadians want to open a debate on the monarchy or constitutional matters at this time. That's our position, and I just don't see that as a priority for Canadians right now at all.”
Oh, my. You couldn't have just stopped at 'this item of business is surely best left to the people of that country?'. You couldn't have said to the reporter, 'Tell you what. Let's pretend that question doesn't count, and you can go back to having all 5 of your questions for me intact.'
No, instead he has to chuck his Florsheims down to the low road. I can picture him as a tot. A tot in a sweater vest, but still. "No! We do it that way because that's the way we've always done it!" If women in this country ever needed another reason to show this political party the door, surely this was it. I like when things this ridiculous end up being this revealing.
Got another recorded message from my MP. Listen up: I'm not voting for you. Your calls annoy me. Hell, calls like that from a party I do vote for would annoy me. The fact your leader would be thrilled I am in my kitchen making dinner when you make the call does little to sway me. Maybe I should kick off my shoes to complete the picture. Perhaps have a third child. Get out of the workforce. Get that band of gold on my ring finger. Buy you a sweater vest. Told you I was rambling.
Saw Tina Fey on TV. I would like her to be my friend. Saw ten minutes of the Sun News Channel yesterday. Don't want any of them to be my friends. Wrote a column about my kid drinking coffee with sugar in it. Got told I was killing my kid with sugar.
Go watch this video. Joy Taylor is a buddy of mine. She's a reader, and I adore her. She writes letters to the editor all the time. She writes letters to me all the time. I went to visit her. She wrote her memoirs, and sent me a copy. I want to be Joy when I grow up.
Grete Waitz, who won 9 New York marathons, died of cancer at 57. This has me rethinking the whole fitness plan I recently embarked upon. When I recover from my finger injury (still hurts like a beeotch, thanks for all your letters), I shall have to seriously weigh the pros and cons of getting into shape as seriously as I weigh my butt.
Flipping around the channels last night, I was pleased to note that The Partridge Family is back on. I watched Keith sing I Think I Love You to a fiesty little feminist, and my heart dissolved. I watched the rest of the 'family' lip sync, and knew, as I have always known, that I could have been a Partridge. I would wear that lace bib. I would wear that velvet pantsuit. I would forgive Keith for losing all his hair. And I would overlook just how weird the whole Rueben thing was.
Kids want to be fed. Which means it's time to go melt cheese on something and if they complain, threaten to show them my finger.