Hey, Mom -- Pictures!

I talked to my mother on the phone today, and she mentioned that she'd read my latest blog posts. "I figured you got your new computer back. So I think it's time you posted some more pictures of Phillip."

Well, first I had to recharge my camera batteries, and then I had to TAKE some pictures of Phillip, and then I had to upload them... I hope you're appreciating this effort, Mom. The way I'm going all out so people can admire my kids.


This one looks purplish because it is purplish. Stuart and I were trying to make a neat color effect with purple tissue paper over the flash. This is Stuart with his most beloved stuffed animal, a tiger named Pizzabunch.



Like Jeeves, Phillip can look like a stuffed frog, too.



Using instructions from a magazine, I made a bag out of grocery bags and duct tape. LOTS of duct tape. I asked Daphne to model it. I couldn't decide which picture was cuter, so I'm posting both.


You can see over Daphne's shoulder my "Can't Play Now" sign that I hang on the front door during naptime. The fine print says, "Please don't knock or ring the doorbell." It's an earth-friendly, all-natural neighborhood kid repellent!



This is what he does a lot of, although not so much between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 every morning.



My oldest and my youngest. Also, by happy chance I caught one of Phillip's goofy drunk newborn smiles.

Rent A Story Shop: The Sequel

I really meant it when I said I wrote a sequel. There was more that had to be said. You can't stop Art and Thinking and all that sort of thing, you know.

***
The clouds loomed and the wind lashed against the glass front doors of the NOVELty Shoppe (B. Hackney, proprietor). Someone scurried in from the wet and cold, jangling the bell above the door. It was the recently-celebrated author Francesca Waters, whose book Love Divine had made a big hit in the Christian fiction market. “And I owe it all to Hackney!” Francesca would say fondly.

Today, as she shook the water from her coat and umbrella, she looked around the shop inquiringly. It wasn’t like Hackney to leave her waiting.

“He’ll be here shortly,” a clerk assured her. In a hushed voice she added, “It’s been a trying day.”

In a few moments, Hackney himself appeared. He looked dapper and, as always, delighted to see her. But there was a tightness about his mouth that concerned Francesca.

“Is everything right?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, quite all right.” He paused, and drew an elegant hand across his brow. “I had a difficult customer with the most unsettling requests. Gave me a turn. How refreshing to see you, my dear Ms. Waters!” His smile returned. “Am I to hope you’re here to announce...” He paused significantly.

Francesca beamed. “Yes! I’m going to do a sequel!”

“Marvelous news! Congratulations!” Hackney cried. “Let’s waste no time! What can I do for you?”

Francesca hesitated. “The story has been coming to me almost unbidden. I can see if unfolding in my mind’s eye. I hope it isn’t... I hope you have...”

For a fleeting moment, Hackney’s smile slipped. His face took on a white-lipped look of ferocity. But almost as soon as it came, the look vanished, replaced by his usual good-humored expression. Francesca told herself that she must have imagined it. “Tell me, Ms. Waters. I’m confident I can help.”

She began diffidently, but soon warmed up to her subject. “Well, the story concerns the daughter of my first heroine. I think I’m going to call her Angeline – you understand the reference, of course?”

“Of course!” said Hackney.

“Well, her father has died in a tragic accident, and Angeline feels compelled to discover his roots. Her quest takes her to the South, the war-torn, ravaged South, still on its knees after the fire and blood of the Civil War.” She paused for breath. “She’s inherited a derelict old mansion, you see. Along the way, she meets a nice young minister. But their carriage is held up by a irreverent young highwayman who heeds to pleas not to steal her money, but demands her amethyst necklace and a kiss from her.”

Hackney’s smile was genuinely sunny now. “And that highwayman is really a courageous fighter for the poor – ”

“ – against the false minister and his band of thieves and thugs, yes!” Francesca exclaimed.

“And the Christian moral is – ”

Together, they sang out, “Man looks on the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart!”

Francesca gazed at him in amazement. “Mr. Hackney, you are truly astonishing!”

Hackney bowed and beamed. “I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to do business with you, Ms. Waters. Now, let me show you our war-torn South settings!”

They headed for the green door with the gold lettering. But before they reached it, the sound of a muffled bell stopped Hackney abruptly in his tracks. He whipped around, and Francesca saw again that expression of white ferocity. He glared over her shoulder, and she turned quickly to see who could warrant such a passionate dislike from affable Mr. Hackney.

It was bearded middle-aged man, dripping from the rain, still with his hand on the bell to keep it from ringing out. He saw the look that Mr. Hackney gave him, and didn’t seem surprised. He let go of the bell and gently closed the door behind him. Every line in his body begged an apology before he even spoke.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. Just one more question...”

“Leave my store!” Mr. Hackney warned.

“Just one thing, I won’t take much time, just one question -– ”

Mr. Hackney was breathing hard through his nose. “I do not sell settings of small towns without dark horrible secrets.”

“I know, it’s not that -– ”

“And I do not sell good-hearted heroes who are nevertheless thirty-five pounds overweight.”

“Yes, you told me that -– ”

“I do not sell short, plump heroines with bad teeth!”

“That isn’t -– ” But the man interrupted his own protest. “But why not? I mean, I live in the twenty-first century, and my teeth are terrible. You know teeth in earlier eras had to be hideous. They probably didn’t see it as the stigma we would...” He saw Hackney’s expression and quickly added, “But I didn’t come back to discuss that. What I want to know...”

Suddenly remembering Francesca, Hackney blushed a deep red and turned to her. “I apologize, Ms. Waters. I should not have subjected you to my own temper like this. I apologize profusely.”

But Francesca understood now his ferocity. Imagine coming into this store and asking for merchandise like that. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” she snapped. “This is a highly-respected fiction store. It doesn’t carry imperfect and... ugly merchandise!” She turned to Hackney. “I completely sympathize with you. My audience –- Christian romance” (to the man) “wouldn’t want to read about a plump heroine with bad teeth, honestly!”

The man looked frustrated. “All I want to know is if I can buy one of your heroines.”

Hackney and Francesca looked at him suspiciously. “Which one?” Hackney asked. “You didn’t like any of my stock.”

“The brown-haired one, with blue eyes.”

Still suspicious, Hackney replied, “She is flawless and beautiful, with perfect teeth.”

“Yes. All I’m going to do is give her a prominent nose.”

His ire flared again, and Hackney waved at a clerk. “Show this man out! Get out of my shop, sir!”

“But we aren’t all beautiful,” the man protested, backing away from an advance of clerks. “Wouldn’t it be inspiring for readers to identify with a... a pleasant face who can attract... no, wait, listen... attract love anyway... you write Christian romances –- doesn’t God use even the ugly and defiled to show His beauty?” he finished desperately.

The effect was electric. The clerks stopped in mid-stride. Hackney and Francesca stared at him, then at each other, in wonder. The man looked from one awe-struck face to another, and suddenly seemed to realize a great horror. He sagged against the doorframe and groaned. “What have I done?”

Hackney called to his head clerk. “Sam! Get the warehouse on the phone! We need to discuss a design for a new heroine. What was it, brown hair, blue eyes, and a prominent nose?”

“But good teeth,” Francesca added quickly. “No need to make her repulsive. Just plain.”

“Until love brings out her beauty,” Hackney added. “Why have I overlooked this aspect all this time? Ms. Waters, I would be honored for you to be the first to use this new line of heroines.”

Blushing faintly, Francesca stumbled, “Oh, Mr. Hackney! I –- The possibilities are thrilling! I’d imagined Angeline with raven-dark hair and flashing blue eyes, but she could be plain instead. Until the highwayman sees her inner beauty, and that’s how she finally realizes that God sees it, too!”

They fell into eager conversation, until suddenly Hackney looked up. “And we must thank you,” he said graciously, turning to the man.

But the man was gone, the bell jangling harshly after him. “What have I done?” he was heard to groan as he staggered into the driving rain.

Francesca looked at Mr. Hackney, who gazed out the rain-spattered door after the man. “A strange man,” he murmured. “But even the strange ones can come up with a good idea every now and then.”

***

My soul now rests in peace.

-- SJ

The Rent A Story Shop

In which I showcase my own work because I think it's pretty funny.

I wrote this over a year ago, maybe longer. I'd just read a Christian romance, and this was the only way I could fully express the powerful emotions it aroused.

***
The bell tinkled as an author pushed open the front door and walked into the shop. The proprietor looked up and smiled. “May I help you?”

The author didn’t answer immediately. The proprietor waited patiently. Obviously it was a first-timer, and they were always a little overwhelmed by the shop at first. Finally the author’s eyes stopped on the large, friendly-looking sign above the check-out station:

The NOVELty Shop
Your One-Stop Shop for People, Plots, and Places
B. Hackney, proprietor

“Can I help you find something?” the B. Hackney prompted gently.

As if shaking off a daze, the author said, “Um, yes. I’m writing a novel.”

Hackney nodded, still patient.

“And I need... well, pretty much everything. A friend recommended me, said you could set me up.”

“My pleasure!” Hackney exclaimed. “Now, let’s start with the setting. That dictates the rest of your choices, you understand. Can’t have a Southern belle in an ancient Persian palace, for instance.”

The young author’s eyes lit up. Hackney shook his head firmly. “No, no, I don’t at all encourage mixing-and-matching. Very rarely works. Best to stick with the package. Trust me, all our settings have been great successes.” He moved quickly across the floor to a large, ornate door. It was painted green, with gold lettering that said, “Settings and Backdrops.” Opening it, he ushered in the author.

It was an expansive room, with floor-to-ceiling rolls of tapestries. The author looked at the nearest tapestry: it was a green-and-gold forest scene, with a large castle just visible through the trees. A crowd of colorfully-dressed people made their way down a winding road to a village market in the distance, past a row of thatch-roof cottages.

“That’s our Mediaeval setting. Very, very popular.” Indeed, there were a few threadbare places visible here and there, especially around the castle, the tourney, and the romantic moonlit bower. “Is your novel a mediaeval one?”

“No,” said the author, regretfully turning her eyes away. “No, it’s a California mining town, circa. 1850.”

“Ah! A popular choice as well.” Hackney pulled down a roll and gave it a firm jerk. The tapestry spun off and settled on the floor, where the author studied it with a pleased smile. It was all there: the dusty air, the muddy streets, the ramshackle houses. Horses plodded along with fully-outfitted cowboys on their backs (most of the cowboys wearing red bandanas and a brown hat). Along the bare dirt Main Street were four wooden buildings: the Bank, the General Store, the Jail, and the Saloon and Brothel.

“I’m going to need a church in mine,” the author said.

“Certainly! That’s an add-in for only $1.49.” He fished in a plastic bucket and pulled out a white clapboard church with a steeple. “And a school too?” he added, holding up a red schoolhouse.

“N-no, just the church. Thanks. This is exactly what I need.”

“Great!” said Hackney. “I’ll have them wrap this up for you. Let’s move on... Characters, would you say?”

They stepped through the green door, and Hackney led the way to another door, this one painted yellow and marked, “Characters, Main and Supporting.”

This room was smaller, but brightly lit. It was full of round clothes racks. But hanging from the racks weren’t clothes, but full-size cardboard people. The racks were marked, “Heroines. Heroes. Best Friends. Master Villains. Minor Villains and Thugs. Assorted.” One rack proclaimed, “Clearance!” The rack was full of soft, plump, lacy Victorian heroines and comic-relief Negro mammies.

The author looked through the Heroine rack, taking her time with the decision. She finally narrowed it down to the tall, slender, red-haired one with flashing green eyes, or the tall, slender, golden-haired one with the alabaster complection. “Just so hard to decide!” she said. “But I think I’ll go with this one.” She lifted off the blond heroine. Hackney smiled and set it aside.

“Now to heroes,” he said.

This choice was easier: “I’d know him if I saw him on the street!” she exclaimed, thumbing through the choices. “And here he is, exactly.”

“Ah, the tall, broad-shouldered, hard-bodied working man, with blue eyes and dark hair,” Hackney noted, and propped the hero next to the heroine.

“Now for the villain,” the author said.

“We have several popular Master Villains in stock,” said Hackney. “Here’s the rude and shrewd one... No? Here’s the violently angry one... Not that one? How about this one, the polished and polite, sinister one? Yes, definitely a good choice. You’ll see that he comes with three free phrases: ‘My dear, you look lovely; Oh, my, what a temper you have!’ and ‘I do hate to have to make things messy!’”

“Perfect!” the author said in delight.

“And today we have a special. Buy one Master Villian and get a Minor Villain half-price.”

The offer was too good to resist. The author chose the dumb, dirty, and violent Minor Villain.

For the next hour, the author browsed the other racks. She finished with an impressive collection of supporting characters, including a Villain-Who-Reforms, an entire set of The Benevolent Family (“they take in my heroine when no one else will,”) a Loyal Friend, a Wise Friend, and a Uses Heroine For Greedy Schemes Villain.

“Excellent, excellent!” said Hackney. “I’ll have these wrapped up for you. Before we move on, please look through this bin of Motivations. Our customers often find helpful tidbits there.”

Finally, having ordered the Deeply Hurt and Iron Will cards for the Heroine, and the Sensitivity and Understanding cards for the Hero, the author was satisfied. Hackney smiled, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Do you have any pre-packaged scenes for my particular setting?”

“Oh, do we!” Hackney replied happily, and led the way out of the yellow door to a large shelf along the back of the main room. “Let’s see, 1850s mining town... Here you go. This entire section contains applicable scenes. You’ll see that your Motivation cards have a colored dot on them. The scenes are color-coded to reinforce our Motivations.

It was a happy half-hour for the author as she sifted through scenes to include in her novel. She chose a Childbirth scene, complete with flustered husband, serene wife, and pots of hot water. For the Hero and Heroine, she chose a Playful Run Through the Field (useful for breaking down the Iron Will, according to the scene’s specifications). She found several brothel scenes, and chose one with work-hardened harlots exchanging hard-edged dialogue during their off-hours.

“Just one more thing for now,” said the author. “My novel is a romance...”

“Say no more!” Hackney led the way to a pink-painted door marked “Romance and Erotica.” This room looked much like the Settings room, but was quite stuffy. The far back of the store was obscured by an opaque fug. “Light romance or...”

“Light,” the author said quickly.

Hackney walked up to a roll marked “Western” and pulled off a length of bright red. It steamed slightly in his hands.

“Um, it’s a Christian romance...”

“Right. We’ve got those.” Hackney re-wound the red and turned to another roll. He pulled off a shorter length of pink, which was merely warm to the touch. “How many do you need?”

“Well, none of them too long, but a lot of them throughout.”

“Great! I’ll have those wrapped up for you. Now, if this is a Christian romance, you’ll want to look through our Moral box and see if there’s anything that will help you. Self-Sacrificing Love is a very popular, as is Knowing God By Falling In Love.”

At last, laden down with packages, the author saw her purchases rung up. The price evidently pleased her: “This is so much more economical. I heard that J.K. Rowling had most of her stuff made up custom, and it was over the top expensive.”

“Yes. I always recommend going with the pre-fab, at least when you’re starting out,” Hackney agreed.

As the author turned to go, Hackney added, “If you need anything else, please come back! We’ve got a new shipment of Crisis and Catharsis Scenes coming in next week. Great for resolving relationship problems quickly.”

“Yes, thank you!”

“And remember,” Hackney added, “we have a special buyers’ program for sequels.”

The author’s eyes glowed as the possibilities crowded in. “I’ll be back,” she promised

***http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

As it turned out, even this story wasn't enough to relieve my feelings about the Christian romance genre. I wrote a sequel.

-- SJ

Sherlock Jones

"Guess what I made for myself at 4:30 this morning when I was up with Phillip," I said to Darren.

"A roast beef sandwich."

"Hey! How did you know that?"

"Because the mustard was still out and the roast beef was in a different place in the fridge."

Wow. Such skills of observation are far beyond me. That same morning, I saw the mass of soggy half-toasted hot dog bun in the sink, but had to be *told* about how Darren found out that you can't toast hot dog buns in the regular toaster because they get stuck and you have to spend five minutes digging them out.

-- SJ

Random Things

Sara does Mundania posts; I do random bits. Basically the same thing, but not so much verbiage. :)

- I bought a cookbook from the Home School Foundation a few months ago, and I’d highly recommend it. A lot of yummy recipes, and even though it’s edited and compiled by homeschool moms, the recipies are sensible (by which I mean, I can actually use them) – they don’t start out with “First, grind 5 bushels of wheat by hand…” The Quiche Bites, the Guacamole Dip, and the Fajitas have all been great successes. The book is a bit heavy on southwestern foods, and there are some great snack ideas too.

- Where do you get your international news from? I’ve been using Google News and Fox for several years, but I recently switched over to the enemy. It’s a rather interesting perspective, and I avoid the sleaze that Fox is so full of. And now I get my fill of cricket news :)

- I thought this video was hysterical. Even though it’s political, which I try to avoid on this blog.

- Songs I’m listening to and enjoying recently: Revelation Song and What Wondrous Love is This as performed by Red Letter.

--DJ

Mundania 24

This is a catch-all for things I haven't had time to post.

Perfectly Bad... These Youtube videos make me laugh even when I'm not watching them. Firstly: it's a joke. And the longer you watch, the funnier the joke is. This particular video is my favorite because it's a "serious acting song." I discovered them via Amy J's blog.

Candy Corn Literature... A friend of mine said that reading a particular author's books is like eating too many candy-corns: you can't stop yourself until you get to the end and think, "Ugh. I ate the whole bag?" That's how I feel about Walter Jon Williams' books. I've read This Is Not A Game and Implied Spaces, and both books irritated me in a variety of ways. I didn't like his pacing, his characters don't develop so much as spontaneously evolve however the plot requires, he can't seem to fathom any male-female relationship that doesn't involve a past sexual encounter... but I start a book and read it straight through, anxious to know what happens. That's the most irritating part of all. Implied Spaces doesn't tell the story it claims to be telling, which was a disappointment; but it also features a villain who (perhaps accidentally) is a dead ringer for the angel of light and original rebel against God, Lucifer.

Misplaced Decimal... I saw an advertisement in a magazine, one of those companies that produces porcelain figurines of nauseatingly cute babies and pert little fairies. This was a realistic cast of Hannah Montana. The doll came complete with a dark wig and change of clothes so you could transform her into her alter ego, Miley Stewart. Also, there was tiny print that said, "This doll is not a toy." Also, the decimal got in the wrong place when they printed the price. Because surely nobody sane would pay $150 for a Hannah Montana doll.

Randomizer quote of the week: "That's a bit of good luck in the shape of a Mama!"

A Homerun, Or At Least a Triple... The Brooklyn Nine was a good juvenile/middle-grade book find recently. It follows nine generations of a family through nine short stories, all of which have to do with baseball somehow. After reading most of the stories, I realized that many of them end sadly; but it's still an engaging book with an interesting format. Well-written, and references family connections without overdoing it.

What She Said... Lindsay's post is a great response to a cultural assumption that bothers me, too.

Grunt Grunt Hum... That's what it's like living with Stuart these days. It started when he was eating: he'd grunt or hum at regular intervals under his breath. After about three weeks of it Darren and I were both ready to throw dishes. But then it got even better: now he does it when he's reading, too. And he doesn't know he's doing it until a parent nearby suddenly explodes. Pray for us.

No! Bad Parents!... Do not name your child "Fender." Nor should you name your child "Kobby," because Kobby might one day want to become a financial advisor, and it would be detrimental to Kobby's career if people saw Kobby's name on an envelope and burst out laughing. Furthermore, it's hard to know if Kobby is male or female.

Why Darren Likes New Babies... Because it's the only time his wife will watch a regular show at night with him. Thanks to C., we've borrowed the entire five seasons of Babylon 5, and watch them to while away time until Phillip wakes up or falls asleep, whichever is on the docket that particular night.

This post brought to you by Darren, who cooked supper while I blogged.

-- SJ

The Gym Is Haunted

I attended first grade in what had originally been built as a high school back in my grandfather's time. So the place was pretty ancient to a six-year-old -- and the most ancient and forbidding part of it was the old ramshackle gymnasium.

The gym probably dated back only to my mother's time, but that was ancient enough. It was a huge white building with a concrete porch area and massive columns. We weren't allowed to go into it, it was so dilapidated. But we could peek through the old doors and see inside: a big silent room, dusty gym floor, and rows of empty bleachers. One time -- one single, memorable time -- the teachers took us in there to play. On the back wall was a faded painting of the high school mascot, a short little man with a white mustache, big white hat, and a gun: the Rebels. Welcome to the South, y'all.

What was most interesting about the gym, however, were the rumors. By the second week of school, everybody knew that The Gym Was Haunted.

Some of the other kids seemed to know all about it. The gym was closed because, a long time ago, a girl had drowned in the swimming pool. What swimming pool? It was under the gym -- see, if you looked underneath it, in the crawl spaces, you could see where the dirt was piled up. That was the swimming pool, all filled in, with the girl's body still in it probably. Also those other smaller mounds were graves, didn't you know that?

One girl said that when her mother was young, she and some friends sneaked into the gym at night. They saw the mascot on the back wall COME TO LIFE and get down off the wall! I think his eyes glowed green, too.

If I were at all skeptical (and I don't remember that I was), I and a classmate confirmed all these suspicions by scientific experimentation. He got a stick and beat it against the gym wall. We clearly heard someone pounding back! It was all true!

There was nothing else to be done but for me to write it out as a news story. I have a distinct memory of looking down at my paper with my penciled handwriting. (Come to think of it, the paper is white notebook paper; so I might actually have written the article in second or third grade.) I reported that The Gym Is Haunted, and provided all my supporting evidence. I even interviewed the classmate who had banged on the wall. I gave him just one quote, but that wasn't bad for a two-paragraph article.

When I was in fourth grade, the unthinkable happened: the school renovated the gym. Absolutely oblivious to the spiritual danger, workers ripped off the front porch, replaced the old wooden bleachers, shored up the foundation, and painted over the undead mascot on the back wall. They covered the peeling white boards with gray vinyl siding. If they discovered the old swimming pool and the bodies underneath the gym, nobody was saying anything.

By my last year in elementary school, the gym was new, improved, and apparently exorcised. Even at eleven years old, I felt a little loss every time we marched single-file onto the bright polished floor. I knew by now that there were no ghosts, no graves, no glowing eyes.

Even if I pounded the wall, all I'd hear back were echoes.

-- SJ

A Mad Lib

Let's play a fun Mad Libs game!

Fill in the blank below with the name of a food. A word like... "salad." Not something like "candy bar." Don't do "candy bar." Much better if you use "salad."

"Boy, I sure do like SALADS! I crave SALAD all day. Sometimes when I'm in town, I make a special trip to the store just to buy SALAD. I even sometimes eat multiple SALADS in one day! And it must be good for me to eat so many SALADS, because look how big Phillip is getting from nursing:




So why don't you go and eat a SALAD today? Even better, send one to me. Because I love SALAD!"

-- SJ

The Daily Fib

I don't remember how it got started: it was, after all, a long time ago that I was in sixth grade. I sat in Row Five in English, the subject that came easiest to me so afforded me lots of free time. Apparently it did the rest of the row, also. Either that or they just didn't do their work.

Somebody on the row (possibly me, but I don't remember actually) wrote a funny "news" story about the school and passed it along the row. Somebody else added an advertisement to the page, and somebody else wrote a personals ad. When that sheet was filled up, somebody started a new one. Row Four got in on the game within the next few days, and soon we had a sheaf of handwritten newspaper. Somebody found a folder for it. And somebody -- me, I'm pretty sure -- titled it The Daily Fib.

The Fib seemed to last for weeks, but then again, we were only twelve and thirteen and there was more time in the world back then. We did fill up that folder, though: we were a self-organized news team with a steady stream of contributions. People would hand me pages all through the day, and in English we'd pass them back and forth and put them in the folder. Mrs. Lawrence couldn't possibly have not noticed, but I don't remember that she ever stopped us. Maybe she was impressed with a spontaneous project among kids who couldn't be bothered to keep their own schoolwork in order. Or maybe, since it was the end of the day, she was just glad we were quiet.

For every new page, I wrote out the masthead and listed the "editors." I didn't know what an editor did, but knew that newspapers had them. So everybody who contributed was an "editor." I think there were about seven on the paper, and no reporters. I'm pretty sure my name was first. I always was a follower in school, so the fact that I, as the self-proclaimed writer of the group, was sort of in charge, was pretty heady stuff.

The content of the paper ran along the lines of a classifed ad for a bike: "FOR SALE: Bike. Great condition! Needs tires, wheels, seat, handlebars, chain, and sprockets. Otherwise it's all yours!" Practically SNL for sixth graders.

I remember one submission being a news story about two friends who were "going together." Somebody wrote it and then drew a picture of stick figures. The picture was supposed to be a photograph of the girl standing on a street corner and the boy giving her money. (We knew very well what that entailed.) Since I also had a reputation for drawing at the time -- I outgrew the reputation when my drawing skill peaked at age 14 -- I was asked to redraw the "photograph." I did. I made the girl rather well-endowed, as I recall. This girl didn't sit on Row Five; she was on like Row Two or Three. So it was a day or so before she saw the picture.

In the ensuing editorial squabble, I pointed out that somebody else had originally drawn the picture. That somebody else replied that HER picture was just a lot of sticks and you couldn't tell what was going on. I removed the article, and I sincerely hope that The Fib apologized in person. I'm still apologizing, mentally, twenty years later.

What happened to The Fib? Eventually the notebook came to me for safekeeping. A year or so later, I leafed through it and was embarrassed by what we'd written. So I threw it away.

Those who remembered it from the year before were irritated at me. I'm irritated at me, too. But it's likely for the best. Some things, like your seventh-grade crush and your favorite childhood cartoon, survive best in fuzzy memory.

So here's to the fond, fuzzy memory of The Daily Fib.

-- SJ

With Help Like This, Who Needs Toddlers?

Lack of sleep impairs my ability to think rationally, which inspires latent brattiness tendencies in my husband.

Yesterday, Darren was setting the table while I nursed Phillip, and asked, "Should I put out plates or bowls?"

After a pause, I said, "Ummm... you know, how about if you make that decision. I'm operating at half-function. I'm likely to tell you to put out tupperware lids."

Five minutes later I walked into the kitchen to find Darren setting the table with tupperware lids.

-- SJ

Instant Gratification

At 1:56 p.m., Darren received the following email from his name-crazy wife who just found out that the updated, revised, and all-new edition of her very favorite baby-name book is available on Amazon thanks to a special agreement with the publisher:

****
Subject:Hip hip hurray!

"Also, yip yip yippee and happy happy dance and I Don't Care Which Budgeting Envelope This Comes Out Of, I'm Getting It."
****

At 1:58 p.m., Darren received another email, due to his wife's forgetting that Amazon sends confirmation emails to his account:

****
From: Amazon.com
Subject: Thank you for your order!
****

At 2:02 p.m., he called to laugh at me.

-- SJ

Picture Potpourri

There's really no order or theme to these pictures. They're a random collection of Life with the Joneses over the past month and a half.



Mom helped me organize the house. Most of the time her "help" was proactive, as when I walked into the living room after eating lunch and discovered that Mom was waiting for me to go through everything she'd dragged out of a closet. I wish somebody would do this to me more often.




Daddy with his two little ones.




Phillip's first bath. He loved it! Look at the joy that exudes from every part of his red, furious little body!




Life is much better a couple of weeks later with Nana (Darren's mom), who at least has the courtesy to keep him fully dressed.



Doing what we do best.

-- SJ

Eight!

She wasn't born on Canada Day, July 1, despite her Canadian heritage.

She wasn't born on the Fourth of July, despite the urgings of her patriotic and extremely pregnant mother.

She wasn't born in the car on the way to the hospital, although we didn't have much margin for error.

She wasn't what I expected my firstborn daughter to be like, but that's because she arrived as her own person, not as the vague character I'd created in my mind.

She blazes through books faster than I can read them. She likes to phrase everything in as elaborate a way as possible. She finds the flimsiest pretexts for drama. She thinks a little differently from the rest of the world. She's grown into a tall, slim, agile little girl whose thoughts often outstrip her years.

Today she's eight years old. Happy birthday to Adelaide!

Cue Laughter

Stuart and Daphne were telling me jokes this morning.

Daphne's earned the "Good Effort" award:

"What did the mailbox say to the road? Because there was a car coming!"

"What did the cow and pig say to the horse? Because they were hungry!"


Stuart's earned the "Most Surreal" award:

"What did the cow say to the horse? Are you a fish, because I am!"

"Why did the computer jump off the spice rack? Because it was a T.V.!"

All these, and many more, were performed for an audience who wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but was stuck in a chair nursing a baby.

-- SJ