never heard the word impossible

This is what Top Management sang as she got up this morning.  

In case you were still wondering if I were really married to a Disney character who grew up in the real world 1970s. 

Mother’s Day: an appreciation

For the guy who made the whole damn thing possible. 

I think that's what makes Top Management so very special: she knows who should really be celebrated today (and every day). 

she is not large…and yet…

I walk into the room just in time to hear Top Management say, as she's sorting stacks of papers into various piles, "I've gotten them all mixed up." 

 

I say, "what, your emotions?"

 

She says, "yes, that's right. My emotions are all a jumble." 

 

The Brawn says, "Because you contain multitudes?" 

It’s Friday

I'm in love. 

(She'd just been taking a picture of that amazing tree—since she hadn't photographed anything blooming in nearly two and a half minutes—and caught me taking a photo of her taking a photo. You can see how irate she immediately was.) 

(I am the world's worst damn photographer. But when she's the subject, even I can take a good one once in a while. Or a series of good ones.) 

I have no idea why she's still with me. But I'm approaching the point where I also don't care why. I'm just so glad she is. 

comedy is in the ear of the behearer

So it's breakfast. The Bean, The Golden Weasel and the Brawn are all nomming their favorite cereal, a kind that's usually too expensive to be able to buy for that many rapacious maws but which happens to have been on sale. The Weasel and the Brawn had been doing a puzzle, and one of the answers had been "eclair," so naturally, then, the Golden Weasel says something about how good one sounded. I, being the paternal figure present, make a joke about how I thought it sounded a little flat.

The Bean indicates she heard but will not deign to respond by the slightest flicker of an eyebrow as she continues resolutely staring at her phone. The Brawn puts his head in his hands and says, "no. Just…no." 

I say, "you know, when I'm trying to decide whether a musical joke is funny or not, I imagine telling it to Beethoven, and if he says, 'what?' then I know it is." 

The Brawn looks puzzled. The Bean seems to sigh ever so slightly. But the Golden Weasel, after her characteristic pause, starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Which makes me laugh. Which makes her laugh. Which makes me laugh. 90 seconds later, we're still giggling. The Brawn still looks confused and a bit annoyed. The Bean finishes eating and leaves. 

It's been a good Wednesday so far. 

my home, now and forever

So today is the 29th anniversary of the first date Top Management and I ever went on. We've always considered it more of a real anniversary than our wedding, since that just made legal what we'd already known, at that point, for five years. 

Oddly, the song that best encapsulates how I feel about her, I realized a while back, is from an artist I've always liked but very much never loved. But with this one, he said what I never could, not being good with words and all. 

Home could be the Pennsylvania turnpike

Indiana's early morning dew

High up in the hills of California

Home is just another word for you

Truer words. 

the perils of being a self-taught reader

The Brawn says, "So. Dad. Scrohjum and…what's the name of the one who always yells 'that's it!'?"

I am momentarily poleaxed by the name I cannot possibly have heard properly. I therefore reply, cogently, "…what?" 

"What's the name of the one who always yells, "that's it!"? 

I look down at the book he's holding and things become slightly more clear. 

"Lucy." 

"Right. So. Scrohjum and Lucy are talking and" and he proceeds to recount to me a strip he's just read which he loves. 

I very much look forward to reminding him of this when he's a teenager and feeling (mainly correctly) that his dad's an idiot. 

he is who the majority of us knew he was

Henry'd only had three customers all afternoon—that is, if you want to count in blind Eddie. Eddie's about seventy, and he ain't completely blind. Runs into things, mostly. He comes in once or twice a week and sticks a loaf of bread under his coat and walks out with an expression on his face like: there, you stupid sonsabitches, fooled you again.

Bertie once asked Henry why he never put a stop to it.

"I'll tell you," Henry said. "A few years back the Air Force wanted twenty million dollars to rig up a flyin' model of an airplane they had planned out. Well, it cost them seventy-five million and then the damn thing wouldn't fly. That happened ten years ago, when blind Eddie and myself were considerable younger, and I voted for the woman who sponsored that bill. Blind Eddie voted against her. And since then I've been buyin' his bread."

let it snow

The Rose didn't get up until nearly 1pm yesterday. 

 

This morning she came running downstairs at 9:20, yelling for her three youngest siblings to get their shoes and coats on, as the weather app on her phone had just informed her it would begin snowing in one minute. 

 

My frequently tortoise-like spawn bundle like they've just been told a tarantula invasion is dropping from the ceiling in 60 seconds and moments later they're out the door. 

 

Ten minutes later, they're back inside, over the moon elated by the teeny tiny dusting of powder that now covers the sidewalk and cars. 

 

"This is the best day ever," yells the 8-year-old boy who, one week earlier was teary over missing his previous town in the desert, the only home he'd ever known, he'd sadly explained. 

 

Resilient things, humans. Able to see wonder in small and unusual places. 

 

a walk in the parkour

So The Golden Weasel and The Brawn have been taking parkour classes for about a month. 

 

During the most recent class, The Brawn slipped off a beam and bashed his thigh pretty well. He sat out about five or maybe even ten minutes, but class is only one hour once a week, so he wasn't going to miss more than necessary. He talked about his injury quite a bit the rest of the day, but then, he's the youngest, and us youngests sometimes do what we must in order to get something remotely close to our fair share of attention. [Editor's note: it doesn't work and we never ever succeed in such attempts.]

 

The next day he asked if he needed a bandaid for his bruise. I explained that bandaids don't help bruises and that it'd be okay in a day or two. 

 

Then he showed me the bruise.

​

I…am not unimpressed.

 

A bandaid might not help that bad boy…but that's a pretty sweet pain trophy right thar.