Smidgen

Sunday: New Children’s Museum opening

If you can get past the short advertisement and then the cheesy intro of THIS CLIP RIGHT HERE—which I encourage you to do—you’ll get a small glimpse at the beautiful New Children’s Museum via Hal Clement, who apparently “knows someone” and was able to get in there with cameras. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that he’s a news reporter.

We’ll be attending the FREE! grand opening this Sunday from noon ’til four and not just because we’re thrilled at the prospect of painting on a Beetle and throwing tires at each other. The truth is, I actually do know someone, and that someone happens to be the gorgeous woman from the New Children’s Museum that you’ll see in this news clip. The animated girl with the darling haircut, perfect bone structure and great ass? That’s Ruby’s JesshiCAH! and my good friend. She’s been working obscenely long hours and has put every ounce of who she is into launching the re-opening of the Museum, and in the hopes of seeing that great ass in person to show our support, Ruby will be skipping nap time.

Please, won’t you join us? Throw caution and afternoon snoozing to the wind and come make JesshiCAH!’s big day a success!

PROMPTuesday: Exercise #1

My friend Deb over at San Diego Momma just launched the first writing exercise in what she is calling PROMPTuesday. Each week—on Tuesday, hence the name—Deb will be offering an idea to get the poetry flowin’. Now, I don’t usually like prompts and I never write poetry. But something got into me last night. (Not my husband. Alas, he was sleeping.) I followed Deb’s stated rules: I set the timer for ten minutes, kept my nonsense poem under 150 words, left my edit-as-you-go switch in the off position, and posted my results on her blog before her deadline. I was interrupted once by my Child Who Doesn’t Sleep Through The Night, which cut into my writing time. But somehow I got it done. It may be my first and last poem. We’ll see…

Your hair’s so short
He said,
Like when we first met.
Radiating spikes of
Fleshtonic heart bursts
Flew from his startling
Blues to black. And I thought I knew what he thought
But instead
The angles pierced my wrongfled thought bubble,
Filled with waves as his hand migrated
From the razor shorn neck
And seared my low back
Where it came to rest and pressed and I sucked in a stony breath
Filled with our story-ness and us-ness of who we were then.
And we took long strides
Pushing against the concrete fast where
Other lovers once scratched their
Promises into our land
With a fragile cocktail straw.

Road Rage

Besides waving bye-bye, one of Ruby’s new talents is to poke things, ANY things, with the middle finger of her right hand. She simply makes a fist, stickes her middle finger straight out and begins the relentless poking until she’s quite satisfied that the object of her poking has been thoroughly poked. Now, as a good mother who wants her daughter to be prepared for the inevitable assholes in life, like the hairy guy in the silver Ford F-250, V-Whatever, I-Have-A-Very-Tiny-Penis truck that sped past me yesterday in the utility lane specifically to cut me off only to then slam on his brakes because he just HAD to get that much further down the I-5 because he and his BUSH/CHENEY ’04 bumper sticker are just THAT much more entitled than the rest of us (deep breath)…because I want Ruby to have every option available to her when choosing how best to deal with these types of situations, I’m teaching her (though much to the dismay of her gentle father) to turn that finger upside down and start poking at the sky.

Screw Babyproofing the House

We’re just going to bubble wrap the baby.

Inappropriate for Children Over the Age of Six

New Rule:

If you are old enough to buy yourself (or have someone buy for you) breasts, each the size of a honeydew melon, you have no business traveling with a teddy bear tucked under the aforementioned rack.

Aloha.