Don't You Sass Me

Sass happens, especially with two young daughters in the house. Like good moms everywhere, I tried to solve the sassiness. I ignored it. Gently, I redirected it. I sent sassers to their rooms. I sent sassers to time-out chairs. And sassers skipped play dates. I even sassed back, and no, that wasn't helpful. None of my sass solutions satisfied until I discovered the piano. Commanding the sasser to "go practice piano" hit the spot. The sasser could not glare at me; neither could the sasser whine and play at the same time. And the sound of plunking keys meant no sneaking away. Eventually the sass settled. Now I'm stuck with daughters who play the piano. And they have their revenge, which I'm sure is sweet. They practice the same few notes over and over; then they practice some more. They say, it's to get it right. But I think it may be sass at its finest.

Gingerbread For A Village

Birdie asked me to bake gingerbread houses for her friends. I forgot Birdie has lots of friends. I'm baking House No. 3. By midweek, I hope to have a village ready to decorate. That's the problem with pretending to listen. Sometimes, I agree to things I have barely heard. Gingerbread houses are fine. I like Birdie's friends almost as much as I like Birdie, and that's quite a lot. I first made a gingerbread house when Birdie and Daisy were little ones. Each decorated half of a house, while eating as much candy as possible. They enjoyed decorating, they enjoyed the candy, but what they liked best happened in mid-January. We took the gingerbread house out to the backyard, placed it on the ground and the girls demolished it with hammers. The process lasted about five minutes, and we all felt very relaxed and satisfied with the results--candy and chunks of stale gingerbread flung everywhere. That's how our gingerbread house tradition began. Birdie has told me about this year's decorating party--it's Saturday. I feel certain she is planning the January demolition party. A lor of candy corn and peppermint will fly across the yard--lucky raccoons--and a bunch of teenage girls will suddenly feel more mellow-lucky parents.

Wheel of Fortune

I time dinner to hit the table midway through Wheel of Fortune. I figure a few minutes of puzzling over letters might stave off Alzheimer's disease. And, it saves Birdie from the undivided attention of two parents wanting to know lots of details about her day. For Birdie and I, the absolute best part of Wheel of Fortune is watching Big Guy. He shouts at the t.v. like it's a live sporting event. Contestants that don't solve puzzles fast enough are only slightly less shamed on than those that know the answer, choose to spin again, and then land on bankrupt. The true sissies really catch Big Guy's ire. They are the ones who have no money banked, but solve the puzzle without even a single spin. "Weinies" would be his word for them. While Birdie and I don't comment so much on the players, we are invested in the game. The final 10-second puzzle tends to send the three of us into a shouting match. Each of us thinks we are the smartest one, even if someone else shouts the answer more loudly. I don't know what strangers would think of the commotion if they knocked at the door. Even saving our souls would have to wait until Vanna flips the last letter.

Turkey, Birdie's Way

The gods are shining on Birdie. While my last night's skype with Mom and Sis led to a general agreement to switch from the oven to the smoker for preparing the upcoming Thanksgiving turkey, we were undecided about what to do to please Birdie. Of the family members polled, Birdie was the most adamant about a traditional oven roasted turkey. To keep her happy, Mom volunteered to boil a couple of turkey legs. Sis snickered and suggested sticking a Cornish game hen in the oven and telling Birdie the turkey shrank. Obviously, they spiked their iced tea with something. And of course, neither of them was going to tell Birdie about the smoker decision. I was hoping Big Guy would do it. Then fate intervened. A text from Sis let me know that her Better Half volunteered to do the 4 a.m. heavy lifting required to get an oven-roasted turkey finished by 1 p.m. Oven-roasted is back on the menu. Birdie has other ideas about the Thanksgiving Feast: In-the-bird stuffing, out-of-the-bird stuffing, green beans, green bean casserole, potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, pumpkin pie, pecan pie... It is a list that she adds to regularly. And that's good. The more Birdie manages to get Thanksgiving done her way, the better I'll eat.

Get To Work

Big Guy travels to Brazil and Argentina. Today, he is in Sao Paulo. This weekend, he will be in Buenos Aires. While he is gone, Birdie and I relax. Very little gets done. I walk the dog. Birdie watches Law & Order SVU. I feed the cats. Birdie watches Glee. I pick up my book, this week it's "Help." Birdie skypes a friend. We consider when the lawn might need to be mowed. Or rather, I think about mowing; Birdie thinks about taking out grass with Round-up. The house could use a vacuum, but really, who cares. Birdie remembers to go to school. I think about the grocery store...as in, why shop when fast food and fine dining exist?  I notice celery in the refrigerator. It has been there awhile. Birdie searches for the half-pint sized peach frozen yogurt. I ate it yesterday. Big Guy calls to tell me about the view from his sixth floor hotel room balcony. I think that a second cup of coffee in bed makes perfect sense. Big Guy describes Sao Paulo traffic, in a knot like always. I think, yeah, but soon you will be wandering the streets of beautiful Buenos Aires. Birdie complains about pre-calculus. I complain about the dishes. Both will get done, but not right now. I check my email. A photo of Big Guy stares back. It's that "Get to work" expression. A new email address or a better spam filter? Birdie and I will work on it.

Donut Test

My weakness is donuts. So I found the new Scotch tape dispenser especially intriguing. Could tape "in fun donut dispenser" be as fun as a donut? What an excuse for investigative reporting. I purchased the tape donut in fun cherry red, then wheeled up to a place I hadn't been before--Ellisville's Donut Palace. The sign on the door said, "When the line gets this long, please keep the door closed." That's my kind of donut shop. I wanted to be fair to the tape donut, so for my "is it as fun as a donut" test, I ordered, to-go, a sprinkle-laden, chocolate iced donut most likely intended for six-year-old Captain Crunch munchers. For immediate consumption, I ordered an exquisitely glazed classic. The counter girl and I exchanged cash and commentary about the lines and which donuts she loved best. She sent me on my way with my bagged sprinkle test donut and a complimentary, fresh from the kitchen, glazed donut hole--her personal favorite. I could already see the test sliding in favor of the sprinkle, not the tape. So I let the sprinkle, and the "fun donut shape" tape dispenser ride around in the minivan for about five hours. Then I went home and explained the donut test to Birdie. In a moment of spirited uncooperation, she grabbed the tape dispenser, called it cute, and refused to try the sprinkle donut. And we share the same gene pool? So Birdie played with tape; I ate the donut--which tasted pretty good in spite of its age and sprinkle overload. Soon afterward, we went to dinner. A starving Birdie dove into bread plastered with butter. I watched, smug in my satisfying sugar laden high. Having discovered the Donut Palace, I wouldn't trade my day or my donuts for all the boring bread, or tape, in the world.

Next Door Neighbors

Bright daylight sends the family next door scurrying for wide-brimmed straw hats and long-sleeved shirts. While my neighbors hail from Nebraska, their gaunt paleness gives them away. I'm pretty sure they are vampires. They don't nip on neighbors or even stray cats, thank goodness. I count them as friends good for borrowing stuff from and great for swapping lawn tips. Though, I wonder about the coffee grounds scattered in bushes--something beneath the ground demands caffiene when it rains. Their backyard is especially cool, with the maple tree sporting a bat house for friends passing through. With their quiet ways, there's something especially nice about my vampire neighbors. What I can't figure is why they left the rich food supply of corn-fed Nebraska for ravioli-fed, garlic-tinged St. Louis. Some night, I'll send Birdie over to ask, freshly scrubbed and well-salted.