Redneck Water Park

Normal Neighbor offered us their old swingset play structure thingie, and on Monday Matt, my dad, and a couple of stalwart dudes carted it over here and muscled it into the backyard. (They asked me to help with the carrying too, so I did, but I didn't really lift as hard as I truly could. Shhh!) It's not all put back together, but I was gone for an hour the other night, and while I was away Matt and the kids conceived of and built the whole slide/pool combo you see here.

It is a lovely addition to our backyard. Let me point out some of its appealing features: It's hard to tell from ths photo, but the end of the slide is propped up on an ice chest (filled with water) and a stack of boards from an old Ikea shelf. Usually the pool is filled with bobbing squirt guns and plastic containers, like there was a flood at the Dollar Store. The other, slightly downhill side of the pool is reinforced with two big plastic chairs and a few bags of playground sand. It is the most redneck thing possible.

Yesterday there were five kids playing on that thing. Mine was the kid wearing only his whitey tighties ('cause bathing suits seem awful fancy). So far there have been no injuries, and judging by the shrieking, good times are being had. I don't know what we'll do, though, when Mitch shows up to mow tomorrow. (Now Mitch, that's a whole other story.)

If you're in the neighborhood and want to slide, no need to stand on ceremony. Just come on 'round the back.

That Woman Is A Non-Stop Party

Last night was curriculum night at Laura's school. On curriculum night, parents go to the classrooms and hear what's on the learning agenda for the year. I think it's a good chance to get oriented to the teacher and her expectations, AND a major, important chance to meet and scope out the other parents. You know, chit chat, say things like, "Laura loves sitting next to Kennedy/Cooper/Addison/Carlyle!" (those are all girls, by the way), discuss playdates, and check out each other's handbags. The uniform for this event, if you are a woman, consists of:

• cropped pants (everybody's wearing those cargo ones, the kind that never go near any actual cargo)
• a floaty, fluttery top OR a t-shirt, if it's pink or turquoise
• sandals
• a pedicure

I am always slightly out-of-uniform because I wear jeans most of the time, whereas my fellow matrons only wear jeans in winter. I have the other pieces, though, which keeps me from getting a demerit. Anyway.

So we were sitting at our children's desks for this event, which required getting ourselves little chairs from a stack. Jan My Former Co-Room Mom's daughter sits in the same group of desks as Laura, so when she entered the room ten minutes late, I waved excitedly and pointed out her daughter's desk to her. I was thrilled to see her, because she always says or does something a little startling. The teacher was already talking, and everyone was actively listening to the intricacies of the first-quarter rubric for mathematics standards. Jan threads her way through the chairs and arrives at her desk. When she realizes there is no chair there, she points to a dad sitting at the next desk and says, at full volume, "I'll just sit on his lap," and she does a half-bend of her knees, as though she is about to come in for a landing. Everyone erupts in titters, the dad leaps to his feet to offer her his chair, she refuses, saying she can get her own, he insists, his wife smiles blandly, and we all get completely distracted from the pressing need to buy multiplication flashcards.

Everyone was seated again and the teacher went on with her program, and everything was fine except that she said, "If it's a test they had did badly on" instead of "had done," and I was pondering how big a deal this was, this grammar slip-up. On the subject of linguistics, in general, I am a liberal, but not when it comes to teachers. For them, I tend toward a jackbooted, strict prescriptionist model. I wondered if maybe she had been going for the simpler, "A test they did badly on," and got caught up in her tenses.

While I was working this out, she came to the end of her remarks, and we were invited to take our child's composition journal out and read it. Then we each wrote a little note for our child to find. I was engrossed in these activities, and only became aware of Jan again when she asked the teacher, "Will N get in trouble because I messed up her desk?" Ms. H came over by her and said, "What do you mean?" Jan said, "I messed it up, I totally trashed it as a joke. I spilled her pencil box and messed up her papers." I couldn't see, but Ms. H glanced into the desk and actually looked horrified. She said, "Oh, don't do that to that child!" My fellow parents were watching this scene in bemusement and dismay. Because they don't know what I know:

The woman is kooky.

I think that is the technical term.

And that's all I have for you today.

Mountain Doings

The kids and I went up to mom and dad's mountain house in North Carolina for the weekend. They were about to go back down to Florida for a few weeks, so we wanted to get some more grandparent time up there. I was thinking that I often mention our going there, but I don't blog about it much. So I wanted to show y'all some of what we get up to in the mountains.

Bird watching requires a major time investment. My dad is the Bird Whisperer. He has these bird feeders on two corners of the deck, and he's lashed branches to the deck rails to make a comfortable bird lounge. So lounge they do. And we lounge on the deck nearby, watching the birds, discussing their habits, and speculating about their inner lives. Usually when I arrive at the house and ask, "What's going on around here?" they answer with a species of bird. Like, "Indigo buntings!" or, this weekend, "Goldfinches!" So y'all don't need to worry about whether the birds of western NC are getting enough attention. It's covered.

Then it's time to load up the kids and go riding around the mountain in the jeep. They love this, though usually the combination of the bouncing and the fresh air puts Hank to sleep by the end.

The closest towns are Sylva and Dillsboro. They are great little places, lively and charming, but not all fancy, and not very touristy.

I've blogged about geocaching here before, when we went to the movie location by the river, but this time we found a couple of caches that were right in downtown Sylva.

That is my child, down on the sidewalk looking under a bench for the cache. I don't think we attracted the attention of any Muggles, but I was taking this picture from far away so nobody would think I was with her.





She found the little tiny canister stuck to the underside of the bench. It had a paper sign-in log inside, rolled up into a tiny scroll. I have been amazed at how widespread geocaching apparently is. The caches are everywhere, even in little places like Sylva, NC.

And of course, no summer weekend in the mountains would be complete without the kids getting wet in a creek. We went to an old grist mill just inside the national park.

In the summer, the mill is running, and you can go inside and see millstone turning and grinding the corn. You can buy the flour and cornmeal too.

The picture just above was taken at the exact moment that Hank formed the intent to throw his sister's shoe into the millrace. It's the pink blur he's holding. See the little smile on his face? It came from within, as the mischief bubbled up inside of him. Proof of his natural badness. The next instant I said, "Don't you throw Laura's shoe in there!" And his face fell, like I'd told him there would be no more Christmas. Stinker.

So that's some of what's on the agenda in the mountains. A weekend there is never long enough. But all that mountain air must have wiped me out, because I confess that today I took two naps. That is one more than Hank took. I hope y'all are feeling somewhat more energetic than I, and that you had a weekend full of good things.

But What Do You Think of My Lipcolor, Officer?

Well, that didn't work. Tuesday I had just dropped Laura off at Pretty Neighbor's house to play with her buddy. They live in another section of the neighborhood. Close enough to walk, really, but come on. It is 200 degrees out there, easy. And I am suffering from what I thought was the Hanta virus. (But then I went to the doctor and I guess it's just a sinus infection. Hmm.) So I was driving home, not particularly groomed. Jeans, t-shirt, hair semi-brushed, no makeup. Possibly a pimple, which I was blaming on the Hanta. I was wearing a bra, so that was one good decision.

I am about to turn into my home section, just two streets from my house. Like, I'm stopping at the final stop sign, careful to wait for the roll back because there is a sheriff's deputy behind me. Well darned if he doesn't turn on his blue lights. I pull over, and oh dear, I have a feeling I know what this is about. Yep, expired tag (I know, I KNOW, we're GETTING to it). The deputy guy is just as polite as he can be: "Do you know why I stopped you, ma'am?" This is the part where I totally threw Matt under the bus and played dumb--when Mr. Deputy said the tag was expired, I was all, "Well I do declare! I know so little of such things! I expect I need to check with my husband, just ever as soon as he returns from whoopin' the Yankees." Then I swished my hoop skirts around and held my fan up to my face, gazing demurely at him through long lashes. You know the move.

So the deputy asked to see my license, and I told him I didn't have it, as I was just taking my kid a couple of streets over and I didn't bring my purse. He was kind enough to use his pen to write my name and birthday on his hand so he could go back to his car and check me out. I waited, attempting an attitude of nonchalance. Waving to my neighbors as they drove by. Sweating, but not wanting to start the car so I could turn the air on, because I was afraid Ponch might think I was going to lam it. I wondered whether I was about to get in trouble, and how much. I thought that for having both an expired tag and no license on me, he might impound the car and make me walk the two blocks to my house. Then I looked down at the little console next to my seat. I saw a Lancome Juicy Tubes lip gloss in the color "Touched by Light", and I thought, "I'm saved!" I'd just slather some of that on, and my law-enforcement friend would be charmed by my easy summery glow. I just knew it was the perfect antidote to the whole unwashed, Hanta look I was rocking. And if anyone could get out of a ticket these days, I knew I would, because seriously, that is a gorgeous color.

But when he walked back up to the window, he was already writing out the ticket. Blast! I was puckering like mad, but all in vain. He seemed very sorry to tell me that my tag was indeed expired, and I nodded ruefully, like I couldn't believe my own foolishness. He did not, however, ticket me for not having my license with me, saying he "didn't wanna double up on me." I was wearing myself out trying to look penitent but still breezy and fetching. He could still have torn up the ticket, but no luck. The only thing I can think is that I wasn't enchanting enough?

I got home and told Matt, and he gloated that he'd gotten stopped for the same thing the other day (I know, I KNOW). And dude did NOT get a ticket. What the hecks? Is this male privilege in action? Matt said the guy said, "Be careful, because next time it might not be your local sheriff," or something. Anyway, I'm flummoxed. I can't believe that Lancome and my feminine wiles let me down.

Does anyone get out of traffic tickets anymore? Anyone besides Matt?

He Says, She Says

Look at the rug (on the wall).

I held the catalog picture up to Matt and said, "What do you think?"

He said, "No."

I said, "Yes, oh yes."

He said, "That tattoo thing is not attractive. I don't want to feel like I'm looking at some Marine's deltoid all the time."

I said, "Deltoid? Making up words is not going to dissuade me."

Seriously, I think that is totally hot, but only as a wall-hanging, like they have it. The only place I really need something that big is in my dining room. And I don't think it would look as good hanging above my chair rail as it looks in their super-mod brick-walled space. Sigh. It's sad when you see something you love, but you just can't cram it into your life edgewise.

Now maybe as a headboard. . .

I'm Not Going to Do Any of That

Sisters, the time is upon us, the time of reckoning. If called to be a Room Mom, will you answer? 'Cause I ain't. (If you've arrived here by Googling "room mom," please click on my room mom tag and avail yourself of last year's room mom saga. Amongst all the minor drama, there are some good ideas.)

Remember Jan, my co-room mom from last year? I know she was a favorite with some of you. Well, guess whose child is in Laura's class again? So we don't have to say goodbye to Jan after all. A couple of weeks ago, when I got Laura's teacher assignment in the mail, I sent out an email to all the parents of last year's class to say, "Hey, let's all tell where our kids are going." Jan wrote to me to say that her daughter and Laura will be together this year, and to ask me if I was thinking of room momming again, and would I like to do it with her again, because we were such a good team. She said, "Plus, if I don't look busy, my hubby will make me go back to work!" Then she favored me with an emoticon.

I won't lie. I missed her over the summer. I missed her insecurity masked with brittle spunkiness; I missed her free-flowing, oversharing, email-epic confessions; I missed her way with a smiley face. I told her that I wasn't going to be a room mom again, but that I would back her candidacy.

So at open house, when Laura and I went in to meet the teacher, I only signed up for some minor duty--I think at some appointed hour I'm supposed to think happy thoughts about the class or something--but I remarked on Jan's name on the room mom list. To Mrs. H, the teacher, I said, "Oh, Jan is great! I was co-room mom with her last year. She does crafts!" And Mrs. H got a gleam in her eye and thanked me for that bit of information. Then I broke my own Rule for Ladies--Never Apologize, Never Explain--and said, "I need to take a break this year, I've got my hands full." Which is Southern-speak for anything from "This would interfere with my bunco" to "My husband is the governor of South Carolina and also we have bedbugs." So Mrs. H clucked and demurred like, "Honey, don't fuss yourself!"

So I got my absolution and we're cool. And Jan is in line to help pull off another year of wall-to-wall crafts, auction baskets, and melon kabobs. God bless us, everyone!

Quick Chattanooga Getaway

We dashed up to Chattanooga on Saturday morning and spent the weekend at Betty's, Matt's mom's house. We lived in Chattanooga for several years after we got married, and I still think of it as one of our hometowns. While we were there we got to:

Catch up with old friends.

Indulge a nostalgia attack.



Mess up the beds and not have to make them.



And go somewhere I'd never been. The Creative Discovery Museum has been open for years, but somehow I'd missed it. When we lived there, we didn't have kids, but now we've got a good excuse to go.



It's not as science-oriented, really, as other Explorium-type places I've been. Instead it was just room after room of really cool stuff to play with, on, and in. Learning, schmearning.





And for Hank, one of the biggest attractions was this voice recorder station that, wait for it, makes you sound like a robot when you speak into the mic. I know, AWESOME!



Hank was like, "Mother, am I to understand that, all my life, this wondrous device, this engine of delight, has been sitting here, a mere 100 miles from my house, lightly guarded by those teenagers at the ticket booth and those rent-a-cop security guards? This device that, with the touch of a button, maketh my voice to SOUND LIKE A ROBOT?"

Yes, little buddy. I'm sorry we didn't come sooner. After that, the giant Curious George exhibit was grrravy.





"Madam, I will assist you in any way I can."

"But I must insist that you refrain from touching my uniform."



Chattanooga is a great town. There is a ton to see and do there, especially if you have kids, and you like being outside. Oh, and if you enjoy stuff that's cool and awesome. You know, if you're that kind of person. Definitely make a weekend trip of it if you're within striking distance.

We also went to see Matt's brother in a play version of The Screwtape Letters, which was great, and went to see District 9, which was also great, though more filled with exploding aliens. And we ate a wonderful Sunday brunch that Betty prepared, a brunch that included vodka, and I managed to make off with a new Eileen Fisher top that she had, which I just happen to stumble upon in her closet, though I think she's coming down here to get it back. Still, a very nice weekend.

Toto, I've Got a Feeling We're Not in Gymboree Anymore

This was Laura two years ago, in her first-day-of-school outfit for first grade. It is exactly how I think little girls should dress. I mean, impeccable, right? (Dress is Gymboree Bon Voyage, Summer 2007 and shoes are the Cherry Pie line, for the Gymboholics among us.) Oh, Gymboree had me on their Gymbuck treadmill big time. I confess I even used to be a regular reader of one--okay, two--Gymboree discussion forums. I know. I kind of can't believe it either: a Gymboree discussion forum. We had a long and happy run with Gymboree, workin' the sales to get it super cheap, wearing it, then passing it along or reselling it on eBay.

But in the last year, I've been hearing rumblings from Laura about wanting to shop at Justice, which is apparently the racier sister of Limited Too? Today I finally caved. I hadn't bought her any new school clothes, because I'd bought ahead so much in seasons past. (She still has clothes she's never worn.) So I told her we could go to Justice and she could pick an outfit, but that we would have to agree on it.

I had never darkened the door of the place. And when we walked in, my first thought was that it looked like an explosion in a hooker factory. Spangles, tickity-tack, flirty skirts, lace everywhere, and neon (very on-trend for Fall). Another mom I was chatting with there peeked into the dressing room where her two daughters were trying on the outfits they had picked, and she turned around to me and slowly mouthed, "STREETWALKER." I nodded in sympathy.

I mean no offense to anyone who loves Justice. There were cute things in there, it turned out. But the overall impression upon walking in was just. . .not that little red sailor dress. I had a few minutes of culture shock. Little girls definitely need a guiding hand in there, in my opinion. Laura, however, was in heaven.

This is what we came away with. She fell hard for the peace sign motif. Actually, there were a LOT of peace symbols in there. I think this upcoming generation must be very dedicated to non-violent resolution of world problems. And they love Snoopy too. So, cool. Laura also picked a pair of pink jeans in the same color, and another, more traditional floral tunic top (that was at my subtle prompting). So she can make a few outfits out of that.

And you know, now that I look at her in the clothes, this outfit is perfectly girlish and cute, not too grown-up at all. I think it just had to be taken out of the context of the store, which honestly, did not look like high-end retail, and isn't meant to be, I know. A nun's habit would have looked tarty in there. This lace-trimmed cami gave me pause at first, but she won't wear it to school without the jacket. And she loves herself so much in it. She danced out of the dressing room in this, and the other mom said, "Oh, you'll be buying that." Then that woman, who totally got it, suggested that I might "get another year out of" the Children's Place as a transition from Gymbo to Justice. She might be right. Also, there's Crazy8, the older sibling of Gymboree. So we'll find our new fashion mode for this next phase. Matt is a good barometer, and he just thought she looked cute, so we're fine.

But I look at that picture of her in the red sailor dress, and I remember that I thought she was such a big kid then. I guess because I had baby Hank. But she was a baby herself, practically. And now she's rocking canvas wedges. I bet there is no chance I'll ever get her back in one of those striped Hanna Andersson playdresses. So for the second time this week, I must now go to my room and cry forever.