good gravy, Whipped, Not Beaten is now an e-book!

Reason # 1 why you must buy a copy of Whipped, Not Beaten on Kindle this month:

It's February.  Whipped, Not Beaten is a romantic comedy.  The best kind of chick lit that doesn't judge you, it just makes you laugh and feel good inside. 

Your mission in 3 easy steps:
1.  Buy Whipped, Not Beaten on Kindle
2.  Read it and feel happy
3.  Post a glowing review over at Amazon, Good Reads, your Facebook page, the wall of the ladies' room at the corner tavern

 

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the coat

is here.  I'll let the pictures do the talking.  Mr. G took the pictures (he got a little creative and likes to sit far across the room from his subject), I did some editing.  What you must know is that the coat fits me PERFECTLY and is wonderfully made.  It shows no sign of wear, has the most delightful wooden buttons and each stitch is firm and tight.  I only had to restitch one button.  My beautiful vintage suede leather coat smells faintly of mothballs, but I plan on wearing it lots and lots so the smell will wear off eventually.  I'm so damn pleased with it I could cry, but I won't because the tears would freeze to my face.

Who needs your pretentious catalog, Robert Redford?  I have Etsy!

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partying like rock stars (again)

 It's been a thrilling time here over the weekend--Mr. G's indoor winter baseball team won the league championship!  Mr. T made a basket during his game!  Mr. B mastered the fine art of setting a pick during a game!  Grandparents were present to watch all of these wonderful moments!  Back at the ranch, we exchanged gifts.  My folks knocked it out of the park with monogrammed Packer pillowcases for Team Testosterone and vouchers for an outing to an amusement park during our next visit.  Three monkeys all in a row opened their gifts and grinned.

The following night we had chili, old neighbors, a bonfire, beer and fireworks.  Oh what a sound to hear the fireworks reverb through the woods, across the frozen creek and rip over the barren snow-covered fields!  Many people enjoyed the show, I later learned on Facebook.  Maybe this should become an annual tradition.  Our only error in judgement was to have the kids collect the shells and toss them in the fire.  One little whistler hissed past my right shoulder and gave us enough of a scare to head back in to the house.  Imagine my horror and joy when later that night, as I closed the blinds, I watched a Roman Candle explode brilliantly from the bonfire.  Red! Green! Red! Green! balls of fire soared into the air and white sparks shot in every direction.  A Christmas miracle that we manage to survive my stupid suggestions.

Christmas Eve we dialed it down a notch--went to church, made our homemade pizzas and enjoyed a silent night.

Until the monkeys woke up and tore into their gifts--such delight!  The airsoft guns, while making me a bit queasy, seem to be okay so far.  In any event, it got the gang outside for a while.

Santa brought the family one of those new-fangled iPads!  I've yet to actually play with it myself, though Team Testosterone does allow me to type in my password so they can install apps like Angry Birds Star Wars...

But the most awesome moment of all was my gift to Mr. D.  After MONTHS of logistical coordination, I called him downstairs to help me with one final gift of the day...

As he reached the bottom of the steps, I flipped the switch and the The. Most. Epic. Christmas. Present. Ever. lit up and made marvelous electronic noises.  Yes, The Best Woman in the World (for the moment, anyway) shocked Mr. D by presenting him with a mint-condition 1988 Secret Service pinball machine.  The story of acquiring this gift is pretty good, but seeing Mr. D's reaction was a thousand times better.

What a moment.

It all went exactly as I planned, thanks to a lot of help from my friends.

He had no idea and was thrilled by the surprise.  Mr. G exclaimed, "This is better than an Xbox!"

While the boys glutted themselves on Christmas chocolates and games, Jax and I hit the trail, he on foot, me on skis.   The air was cold and still and silent.  We saw some deer, rabbits and a few birds.  I counted my blessings and enjoyed the peace.

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all is bright

At last!  The sun shines!  We've had days of fog, just the grumpiest, gloomiest weather you might possibly imagine.  What a blessing to see across the field and feel awake today! 

That bird feeder sees a LOT of action practically minutes after I start filling it for the season.  All those visitors provide plenty of entertainment. I pause several times a day to watch what's going on out there.

Meanwhile, I used these dark days to catch up on the loads of wash, the ironing, the grocery shopping, the cleaning and even convinced Team Testosterone to tidy up.  Mr. B and Mr. G have started a pretty decent pile of toys they want to donate to the local thrift shop.  We've decorated inside and out and made a list of what we want to DO this month for fun.  I even baked the first batch of Christmas cookies (gone within 2 days) but I still haven't faced the biggest chore of the season:  writing my annual Christmas letter.

Reader, my annual letter is epic.  It might sound like I'm bragging, but I'm not.  There are people who look forward to it all year long.  I've used clever themes, written lovely prose and included gimmicks like last year's which was set up like a Facebook page.  Each year I raise the bar a notch higher and each year I succeed in knocking it out of the park. 

The sun is shining on this day, a day that happens every December.  The day when I sit down at the 'ol laptop and grind out the NEW!  BEST EVER!  GENIUS! Christmas letter for the year.  There will be gnashing of teeth, wailing and tears.  There will be phone calls to Mr. D asking for moral support and fact-checking.  There will be failed drafts.  But mark my words, reader:  There will be success.  For today I will write a letter that will go down in the annals of Christmas Letter Writing History as legen (wait for it) dary.

All I need is one bright idea to get it started.

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promises

It's been chaotic here.  Make up homework from our trip.  Basketball.  Football.  Even winter baseball, for crying out loud, because Mr. D's just a guy who can't say no.   Three boys who want some semblance of a social life.  Parent/teacher conferences.  Birthdays, a wedding and church.  Meetings, a home improvement project and work.  Squeezed into this mess are the usual chores like laundry and dishes and cooking and that poor, poor dog.  So it's NO surprise that everyone's coming down with a variation of the Standard Head Cold.

Mr. T goes with pure stuffiness, scratchy throat and fogged-up ears.

Mr. D prefers the classic raw throat and sneezing.

Mr. B's a mucusy mess with a seal's barking cough.

Mr. G sniffles and feels warm to the touch.

I take a hit off the ol' asthma meds and limit the suffering to my nasal passages.

Time to slow down, say no, limit what we've piled on our plates.  I started today when getting an email asking me to sub at church on Sunday.  Well, that one was easy since I'll be out of town.  

Mr. B and Mr. G got their black belts Sunday night.  No more karate class after school for Mr. G.  We're all in the same time slot now, reducing my trips to town and taking the edge off the supper/homework crunch twice a week.

Gratuitous photo of Mr. B (2nd degree) and Mr. G (1st degree) with their instructors at their graduation celebration.

I'll set aside the home improvement projects until deer hunting season.  That's when I'll have some time to tackle those jobs and they'll still get done before the holidays and any significant snowfall.

That's all low-hanging fruit.  The next level of cuts will hurt.  I guarantee we'll feel some suffering.  But in order to keep our family unit strong and healthy we need to make some tough choices.  That means clarifying our priorities and keeping focus. 

I solemnly swear not to take on any further responsibilities until our schedule clears.  Read my lips:  NO NEW ACTIVITIES OR COMMITMENTS.  We're adhering to austerity, a policy of isolationism to preserve our sanity.  We will have a better tomorrow, tomorrow. We hold onto hope that things will change as we set aside our different schedules and begin to work together. 

A new start this November--a choice for the future--united we stand.

But first?  I have to get to the polls.

Happy Election Day!

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we're there

Years ago I started taking this picture of Mr. D walking the kids to school. It's kind of a cool way to measure their growth since Mr. D stopped getting taller years ago...

Yesterday was the first day of school here in the Dairy State.  Last night after shuttling Mr. T home from cross-country and feeding the gang I had a meeting at church.  It was a rush of paperwork, excited conversations and carb-loading. Before I could issue job assignments, Mr. G and Mr. B bolted outside to play with their buddy who'd rolled in to his grandparents' driveway next door.  Mr. D called from across the state to check in and Mr. T chatted to him on my cell phone.  I left the house and children in a state of chaos, I also left my phone.

On the drive home it was already dark.  Lightning flashed to the north and the weather guy interrupted Matchbox Twenty on the radio with storm updates.  The Momvan's fuel gauge was on "E." I worried about whether Mr. T fed Jax and pulled the clothes in off the line. Was Mr. G fretting about the thunder (he really hates storms)?  Was Mr. B shutting the windows?  Or were they so tuned in to Cartoon Network that they were oblivious to the details?

I walked in to find the remnants of dinner still strewn across the table and a basket of dry clothes sitting on the floor.  Mr. T told me I'd "left the phone behind" and the neighbor guy had called.  His grandson, Mr. G and Mr. B were playing in a field he'd treated with weed killer that day.  Lightning flashed.  The wind gusted through window screens.  I turned off the TV, shut a few windows and listened to Mr. T explain that he made his brothers strip out of their clothes and jump in the pool to clean off any poisonous residue.  "Mr. B's eyes were itchy, so I gave him a wet washcloth.  Then we watched TV and waited for you." 

You done good, kid.  By any measure you've really grown up.

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to the manor born

Fellow Derfs will totally appreciate the pun. 

Hey Kids!  I'm Derfwad of the Week over at Derfwad Manor!

Click on the link to find a cool decoder ring a great Derfwadian deal on Whipped, Not Beaten and other fun stuff! 

Who else out there is participating in Mrs. G's Road Trip?  I'm wishing real hard I could get to Charlottesville, but realistically I'm trying to arrange to tagalong from Madison to Minneapolis.  Spill it, reader.  Are you A Derfwad?

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fresh & tidy

As you can see above, I've finally invested in a proper header--you dig? That, friends, is the work of The Blue Ridge Gal, divine goddess of design and proprietor of two of the sweetest pups you'd ever want to meet. Diane's one of the fun bloggy people, if you haven't met her yet, you should. She puts a bit of perk and punch in your day.

Speaking of fresh & tidy, check out my laundry room! Two years ago I painted it, but ran out of paint (and patience). Can you believe I'd be so lazy? It's true. To fully appreciate how bad it was, behold:


Like most neglected spaces, I did what any self-respecting slob would do, I kept tossing more junk into the room:

And it got dirtier and messier and more horrible.


This project's sat on my "to-do" list for TWO YEARS, but I finally got after it this week and I'm so pleased. Fully coated, scrubbed down (even below/behind my washer & dryer, where I found a missing hammer, several Nerf bullets, a book and some stray socks) this room is now a thing of beauty.


We got rid of several old/outgrown pairs of shoes, tossed out a bunch of crap and I even bought a bench.

Here it is, all lived in and useful once more.


It feels good to cross that chore off my list.

Speaking of crossing stuff off, here's Mr. B who passed his first TnT handbook at Awana Tuesday night. I could not be prouder, nor could he. He worked pretty darn hard memorizing a BUNCH of verses and working through the sections. Plus he's cute, so why not post a picture of him, right?


Spill it, reader. What have you felt proud of lately? And more importantly, do you know The Blue Ridge Gal, Diane?

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signed, sealed (by a notary public), delivered

True story: until about 8 years ago I thought "notary public" was a "note republic," which made sense in my mind since it involved stamping written documents, i.e. "notes" and we do live in a "republic" of sorts, according to my son's social studies textbook. If you ask me, "notary public" is a dumb looking phrase anyway. But I'm also someone who sung the lyrics to "Blinded by the Light" in a douche-y kind of way, so there you go.

What did I get stamped/sealed/authorized by a notary public? My paperwork making me an official candidate for school board. I'm making a run for public office this spring. I've put my money where my big mouth is. Well, actually I haven't put down any money. In fact, I left the form about campaign finance blank because will not accept any PAC contributions (unless Mr. Colbert wants to spring for some 7-course meals for my supporters). I won't be the candidate who sells out to special interests. I plan to run a clean campaign, no smearing the opposition, no mudslinging, just plain old stating my position on the issues so people know I'm really the best person for the job. (Actually, I barely know the 2 guys running for the seat, so I'd be hard pressed to say ANYTHING about them at all, other than one seems nice and helps coach...)

"All in," that's my motto for 2012. No more fretting and sweating on the sidelines (except at baseball games--I have no business rushing out on the field OR into the dugout. They can hear me fine from my spot in the bleachers). I'm not going to wish and kvetch this year, I'm going to push up my sleeves and twist back my hair and GET THINGS DONE. Our school district needs a little (okay, A LOT) of redirection. I'll get a seat on the board so I can spread around my awesome ideas.

That new motto also means my kitchen is about to get a makeover. It's blah and depressing. Not by the end of this month though! Stay tuned for a BIG REVEAL at the end of January.

I've got books to edit, a garden to fence, trees to plant, children to nurture and recipes to try. "All in" means less thinking and more doing. This means I'll need lot of energy to live up to 2012's motto, so I'm ramping up my cardio and spending more time praying. And I might start drinking more coffee, too.

"All in." Spill it, reader. What's 2012 going to look like for you?

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first of three promises

I did promise you video proof of the infamous throwing and catching of a sword.

I'm a woman of my word.

Voila!

(And you're welcome--I managed to edit the thing so you wouldn't be subjected to the entire demo.)

(Good golly did I need a haircut.)

(I bounce a LOT when I walk. Note to self: work on that, eh?)

(Yes, those karate pants are the least flattering things in the world to wear.)




But. The important thing here is the CATCHING, right?

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happy ending

I caught the sword.

My relief made me giddy.

Now I'm free to concentrate on a few other things, like a book launch party, wrapping up revisions on my other manuscript and clearing a path through the Back 40 so I can cross country ski this winter without getting snagged on branches and dead trees. My desk is buried in paperwork, the boys have play dates planned, there are dentist appointments and haircuts to orchestrate. I've also asked Mr. K, XMA Guru, to teach me the rest of the sword form because I'm feeling up to the challenge. Maybe the sword is my weapon.

I will post a video of the catch as soon as I can get my hands on one, pinky-promise.

Meanwhile, spill it, reader. What's making you giddy this morning?

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asian influence

Last night the Bumble Book Club met at a Chinese restaurant to discuss Sarah Rose's book For All The Tea in China. First, the book. If you are a history buff, tea buff, gardening/botany buff, China buff, India buff, Anglophile or even crave a fascinating read about the greatest act of corporate espionage in history, you want to get this book.

After our meal and discussion, I cracked open my fortune cookie (which is funny, since For All The Tea in China is about Robert Fortune, who we stumbled upon in Bill Bryson's book At Home which led to choosing Sarah Rose's book for October's read). I chuckled as I read my fortune:

You are going to pass a difficult test.

It is Friday. Tonight is my final training session before my 2nd degree black belt test. After training I will fly through the shower and go to bowling league. After bowling I'll un-tape my ankle and sleep. At 8:30 Saturday morning I'll watch Mr. G at flag football, followed by Mr. B at 10:00. At 1:30 my difficult test begins. My final 3 miles of running. My final strikes, hits, kicks, jumps and spins. (You better believe I'm putting dinner in a crock pot--no way am I cooking after I get home.) I foresee no problems passing.

On Sunday Mr. D and I will go to the Packer game with friends, M and V. M is a relative of Mr. D's, he stood up in our wedding and he and Mr. D were (are?) Ghost Players together. M was in the movie Field of Dreams, the catcher with the handlebar mustache. Baseball guys at a football game, which Green Bay will win because this state is on a roll. They've never been to Lambeau and I always get a kick out of bringing people there for their first time. (I'll wear my Greg Jennings jersey and sit in the south end zone, just in case you're looking for me.)

Naturally my baseball husband will watch the Brewers play Sunday night, hoping Our Fair State will continue to dominate. I'll curl up beside him with an ice pack on my ankle and a cup of hot tea in my hand. Tea. From seeds stolen out of China, transplanted on mountainsides in India, shipped to America and steeped in a mug also imported from China.

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below average

and kind of proud of it. I calculated Team Testosterone's back to school expenses--according to the National Retail Federation, the national average is $604 per family--I have 3 kids and we spent about $400. Without bargain shopping (I'm lazy and hate to shop--I went to a shoe store and Target and shopped online at Old Navy and Amazon). Without extreme couponing. I checked off every item on the list sent home from school and spent $200 under the national average. How did Green Girl do it?



* Those Lands End backpacks purchased 2 years ago? Holding up just fine. As are the lunch bags/boxes. $0



* Thanks to my anal-retentive scrubbing and storage of outgrown shoes (complete with crumpled newspapers inside to keep the odor/moisture in check), I bought 2 pairs, a spare for Mr. T and a new pair for Mr. B. Mr. B's gym shoes are Mr. T's hand-me-downs and Mr. G has plenty, too. $100



* Old Navy had a sale this summer and I snagged polo shirts for $7.50 and cargo pants for $12.50. Each boy has 5 polos and 4 pairs of pants--have I mentioned how much I love school uniforms? Makes our life easy and pretty cheap to boot. Mr. B picked up a pair of shorts at the school's Family Fun Night--they had tables of donated uniform clothing. Each boy has 1-2 pairs of appropriate shorts and Mr. T's shirts and pants from last year will fit Mr. B fine--a couple new things tossed in, but man, hand-me-downs sure take the edge off the clothing budget. $130



* I clean, sort and store the boys' supplies at the end of each school year--a huge box holds the unused glue sticks, scissors, partially used spiral notebooks, protractor, calculator and so forth. I tear out the "used" notebook pages, dump the crayons (seriously, when you buy the requisite 2 boxes per kid per year, they really add up. ditto for pencils and markers) and markers into a bag and scrub the pencil boxes. I begin this year's school supply shopping from this box. No one needed scissors or pencil boxes. I tossed a variety of crayons in each case, sharpened last year's colored pencils and tested last year's markers. Amazingly, few of these supplies need replenishing. I purchased: 2 rulers (only had one on hand--the parochial school takes measuring seriously--all 3 boys needed one!), supplemental notebooks and folders, glue sticks, erasers, one package of markers, red ballpoint pens, highlighters and a set of watercolors. The boys don't care about their folders and notebooks, so we get the plain color ones, which are also the cheapest to buy. $20



* The school supplies for classrooms really added up. Dry erase markers, reams of printer paper, napkins, tissues, disinfecting wipes, plastic baggies (in all 3 sizes) and hand wipes. I didn't have a surplus of any of these items on hand, but I had a few coupons. Between Target and Amazon.com (dry erase markers--very difficult to track down all the right kinds and I hate to shop so I only tried Target in person) I acquired the necessities for the modern, germ-infested classroom. $80



* Haircuts. Two buzz cuts and a more complicated cut for Mr. T who wants to grow his hair long. $70 (incl. tip)



Not half bad, I'd say. Most of the savings came from Mr. T not requiring many school supplies as a 6th grader (same calculator, same thumb drive, same Spanish/English dictionary, same protractor, compass & ruler) and Mr. G and Mr. B wearing hand-me-down clothes and shoes. Quality always pays off, so the investment in those Lands End backpacks and lunch sacks was totally worth it.



Spill it, reader. Are you above average, average or below average in your school shopping?

More importantly, how would you spend the remaining $200?

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one grande java chip frappuccino with a side of toenail polish

You know I never did some stuff (see: post from last week) and naturally some people took that to mean I'd created some sort of funky bucket list that involved following NASCAR and knocking down wedding guests so I could catch a bridal bouquet. Au contraire. Nevertheless, prodding came from all corners to quit being a fuddy duddy about my toenails. My neighbor gal, J, invited me out for ice cream-coffee drinks and pedicures to help celebrate her birthday. "Go! You must go!" everyone encouraged.

Well, here you go, readers.

I began the day with reasonably clean feet and picked up J after lunch.

toes in the buff

We arrived at Starbucks and J explained the different drink categories. After much discussion while studying at the menu board, I decided to copy my friend Sarah's daughter and order something called "Java Chip." Totally copying J, I ordered a "grande java chip frappuccino." Naturally this led to the barista asking more questions--"Whole milk? 2 percent? Skim? Soy?" "Whipped Cream?" Obligating with the "routine" of a Starbucks counter, I filled in the blanks, including, I think, my blood type, athletic shoe brand preference and marital status.

Eventually this arrived:

Smooth, creamy, I confess I should've gone with another flavor because those little java chips kept lodging in my throat like tiny pills. It was yummy, but not unlike a chocolate milkshake. People, the jury is out. I like coffee and I like ice cream, but they don't need to be mixed together for any particular benefit that I can fathom.

After sitting at an outside table and enjoying our cups o' frothy sweetness, we headed toward the beauty school where our side-by-side chairs awaited us.


The chairs had massage features (nice!) and the hot bath felt pretty relaxing on my feet. The photo above is of J's feet. Note her pedicurist's long blonde hair--it was really remarkable hair. My pedicurist (M, a nice gal from North Carolina who was seeking a career change from her gig as a CNA at a nursing home) was only in the nails program, her hair was nothing to get excited about.


Here's the little tub for my feet. Yes, those are my Germanic calves framing the shot, lending the entire photo a p*rnographic quality I just now notice.

The view from our chairs was really nice.


After much soaking and exfoliating and disinfecting, some clipping and filing took place. I thought the sloughing with the big file would feel worse than it did--really wasn't an unpleasant sensation. My cuticles (I have them on my toes? I had no idea!) were softened, pushed back and trimmed. Massaging, rubbing, scraping and polishing took place. My feet never looked quite so clean and pink before.


Then the pedicurist painted them.

I confess, every time I look down, my toes make me smile. Kind of like when you see a monkey wearing a dress. It's unexpected, you never thought the monkey looked naked before, but now with a dress it looks sort of cute.

I have cute toes.

Cute, robin's egg blue toes. On Green Girl feet.


My verdict? A pedicure is a relaxing treat and, unlike getting a facial or massage, you get to actually see the results which in my view adds bang for your buck. Will I get another? I imagine I will. Will I always paint my toes? Highly unlikely. Am I glad I did this? Yes, I am. Thanks, J, for a fun afternoon--and happy birthday!

(J's toes look elegant--she opted for OPI Red.)

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spring busyness

I harvested our first asparagus from our garden! This year I'm adding garlic to the potager and the strawberries survived their latest (and hopefully final) move and appear healthy. Asparagus, strawberries, garlic, rhubarb--are there any other perennial vegetables or fruits I can add? Nearby we've got pear and apple trees and the raspberry patch. Plenty of herbs grow by the driveway and I found volunteer cilantro in the potager, too. We've spread about 10 cubic yards of shredded bark and have another 10 to go. Daffodils have peaked, tulips are taking their spot as the showcase flower of the next few weeks and there are so many dandelions blooming bright yellow that it blinds my eyes.

This week Team Testosterone starts playing soccer and baseball--we'll cram that into our schedule on top of practice times and the remains of the school year. As usual, Mr. D will miss the first game of the coach pitch season--he's the coach but has to be at the high school game (priority). I told him he better find a couple dads to help me that first night--both Mr. B and Mr. G are on the team, and while their baseball skills continue to improve, I still make a crappy coach. I'm glad to handle crowd control in the dugout and keep the book, but the finer points of working the pitching machine and advising player still elude me.

Other projects are piled on my desk--Marni's latest Nora Tierney novel to edit, karate curriculum to write, the karate newsletter, Boy Scout business. The pool needs cleaning, the garden needs planting, no matter where I look I see something I have to work on. Springtime is craziest--no other time of year has me hopping like the month of May. I wish I could clone myself, what mother hasn't dreamed of duplicating her speed, energy, know-how so she could spend the day reading and eating chocolates? Or at least have time to finish her 'to do list.' If I can't clone myself, I'd gladly take a copy of Rosie to give me a hand around here!

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rooted

I've lived in the same place for over 8 years now--a record for me. Growing up, we consistently moved every 4 years or so. I was always The New Girl, a visitor passing through, ignorant of longstanding traditions or inside jokes. When people asked Where are you from? I never knew whether to say the town where I was born or the town where I lived before this one. (Don't pity me, though. The up-side was comfort in knowing if I hated a place we wouldn't be there long. Unlike my classmates, I had the advantage of figuring out my exit strategy before I started middle school.) My college years were a shuffle of dorm rooms and sublet apartments, I leased living space through my first teaching jobs. Then Mr. D and I lived in an apartment before buying our starter house where we lived for 7 years. Eight years ago we built this house and I was the New Girl in Town one more time.

Yesterday Mr. D picked me up for lunch and voting. In our small town, there's never a line to vote and we can grab sandwiches and coffee at the local family restaurant in a half hour or less. But now we're locals and what should've taken half an hour took almost an hour--because we kept stopping to talk to people. People know us, know our names, have shared experiences with us and share this section of the map we now call home. What really struck me was how I talked to these different people--one conversation was about a book, another about the artist and the mural at Happyland Elementary, another about my sons' favorite babysitter. Tied in different ways to various people living in the same place.

We're local, we belong. Let me tell you, it feels pretty good to feel connected to the people in my neighborhood.

Spill it, reader--what's a sure sign that you belong?

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more green and the start of a legacy

Mr. G brought this home from school Friday--his favorite green things. It was too darn-tootin' cute not to share. That first one is "soda" not "Yoda"--he loves Mountain Dew, even though he only drinks it on rare occasions. For years I'd successfully convinced the boys that it was beer and therefore off-limits. (Yes, I've deliberately lied to my children--if you're judging me right now, then I'm sure you haven't got three sons.) A couple years ago some "helpful" adult at a graduation party clarified for Team Testosterone that Mountain Dew is soda and perfectly fine for them to drink. Continuing clockwise, he's got "army" and "snake" and "T-Rex."

But Mr. G loving green things isn't the legacy I want to brag about today (even though Team Testosterone receives the bulk of my love and resources). As regular readers know, I've been president of the Happyland Elementary PTA for years. My dream was threefold: 1) not kill the group 2) double its fund raising prowess 3) do more than buy construction paper and glitter for the classrooms.

On count #1, I'm glad to report the group didn't die out under my leadership--granted, there were a few meetings where only 5 people attended and I got panicky. But another woman and I brainstormed and figured out how to recruit members to increase parent involvement. We're rich in numbers now, volunteers come forward to work events all the time and the committees have the most diverse populations to date (instead of the same 3-5 people running every single PTA thing).

On count #2, we've done pretty well financially--back in November 2004 the treasurer's report was $2,458.81, November 2009 we had a balance of $14,672.13 (this is all public record, I'm not revealing any classified PTA secrets here). We've bought big pieces of playground equipment, books, furniture, supplies and technology. Happyland PTA is a force to be reckoned with, doing good and leaving their stamp all over that school.

Count #3 was my vision--I wanted Happyland Elementary to be more than a fund raising group. I wanted them to have political voice to advocate for our school to the community and its leaders. I wanted them to use their resources to do more than purchase school supplies. I wanted them to become a group engaging in discussions about education and kids and parenting--not bogged down in planning sock hops and bake sales. I about burst out of my seams at meetings these days--the parents involved are bringing in experts on parenting to run seminars on discipline and boundaries. They're understanding that they can and should use their voice at school board meetings. They're wanting to do more for the elementary school than plan monthly events.

The coup de gras begins today: the first artist-in-residence booked and sponsored by Happyland Elementary PTA is in town doing special art classes with our kids for the next two weeks. The enthusiasm for this program is amazing--a meet-and-greet breakfast for the artist and staff was hosted by some moms in our group. For the next two weeks the artist has at least 2 volunteers to assist her in the classroom. The PTA caught the vision of how we can enrich our school and my dream is that this year's artist-in-residence is the beginning of many in years to come--songwriters, dancers, actors, musicians, writers, poets, painters, sculptors.

What a legacy to contribute towards--infusing children with a passion for the arts.

This year's artist is painting a mural in our cafeteria--an industrial space currently painted boring beige and white. Three panels of one wall will colorfully interpret a theme she works on with the students--a permanent record of what Happyland Elementary PTA envisions. The students will also paint several canvases to be hung around our school--hopefully these canvases inspire generations of students with their beauty and creativity.

I wanted to leave a legacy--something more substantial than empty jars of glitter and paste and used-up reams of construction paper. Today it's beginning and I feel so excited. We've got the resources in place to continue an artist-in-residence program for years to come and I know it will because I've seen the enthusiasm growing for it over the last couple months. After these two weeks, I feel confident that "Artist-in-Residence" will be as anticipated annually as the Sock Hop.

Spill it, reader. What's the legacy you're working on leaving behind?

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of a type

True story: I had horrific penmanship as a child. I hated to write, it was a physically painful experience to grip a pencil and scrawl crooked letters across the page. I loved to read, I had ideas and stories to share, but the act of putting Ticandaroga No. 2 to that dirty, flecked practice paper, paper so thin that a chubby pink eraser tore it to shreds, hurt.

My new second grade teacher, Mrs. E. Miller (not to be confused with her sister, also a teacher at Ralph Witter Elementary, Mrs. V. Miller), was a gaunt, wrinkled woman who wore dark glasses. She observed my right hand clutching at my pencil during handwriting exercises and flew to the side of my desk.

“You’re holding the pencil wrong.” She peeled my gnarled grip away from my Ticondaroga No. 2 and repositioned them so the pencil rested on my middle finger instead of my fourth finger. “This is how we hold a pencil.”

She straightened up and continued down the aisle of desks while I flipped my middle finger back to the top of my pencil and continued copying the sentences off the board. The girl likes to play with dolls. People eat many kinds of food. In 1979 whole language instruction had no place in public classrooms. “Writing” meant copying meaningless subject-verb combinations from a teacher’s manual.

A week or two of battling over my grip on the pencil ensued before she called in the Big Gun, the Principal.

“Green Girl, holding the pencil the wrong way makes your handwriting sloppy. If you hold it correctly,” the Principal’s hands pried my middle finger away from my index finger and placed it below the yellow pencil, sliding my hand far from the pointed tip, “you’ll be a better writer.”

But my handwriting remained atrocious regardless of where I placed my fingers on the pencil. To better instruct me on handwriting, Mrs. E. Miller adhered to the “practice makes perfect” school of instruction. She kept me in during recess to copy extra sentences on that thin, dirty, blue-lined paper. The pressure from my frustrated pencil tip and angry eraser tore through those horizontal sheets of paper while I tried and failed to make a passing grade in Penmanship. And the more sentences I was given to copy, the sloppier I wrote. My hand grew tired, my attitude grew bitter.

Years passed, the stories brewed in my brain, my handwriting improved slightly and I found myself in a high school Typing class. An entire year of typing--sitting at an electric typewriter, Mr. Smith, the lazy business teacher at his desk with his feet propped up telling us to hit the keys "GGHHGHG." As my fingers trained to hit the keys, my accuracy and speed developed and I learned to type, really type. I found a method to get my ideas onto paper that didn't hurt and always looked legible. I found a method to write that worked at the same pace as my brain and I found I could type for hours without tiring. My brain clicked into a new gear that year, allowing me to think my ideas while typing them, the act of typing requiring as little thought as swallowing or blinking.

Learning to type gave me freedom of expression. My penmanship is still pretty awful (heaven help those poor students of mine who had to read it off a chalkboard back in the day!), but thank God for keyboards and printers. I can pound or clack or tap my thoughts onto the page (or screen) as fast as I can think them. Technically speaking, I'm not a writer, but I've found words to be the most valuable medium for communicating and there's more than one way to get those words on a page. Someday I hope to write clearly and legibly, I'd like to learn proper cursive and refine my handwriting. But until then, I'm thankful for a type of writing that's as easy as pressing a button.

Spill it, reader. How's your handwriting? Are you a typer or a pen or pencil writer?

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where were we?

That's right...family vacation...South Dakota. It's all coming back to me. I'll distill an entire week to the highlights, with travel tips for those of you planning a similar trip some day.

The Road Trip portion of our journey went fantastically well. I packed a cooler of healthy snacks and the boys spent a lot of time drawing and reading and playing auto bingo before settling into a DVD. I cannot recommend the 3:00 p.m. departure time enough. We stopped at a truck stop for dinner around 6:30 which gave us enough of a break to continue on until 9:00 when we checked into our first hotel and where I took Team Testosterone to the pool to burn off their pent-up energy while Mr. D took to the bed and TV set in our room. (Just because you're on vacation doesn't mean you should disrupt your regular schedule too much.)

We were startled to find ourselves in South Dakota earlier than expected. Naturally we took time to admire the Corn Palace.


Our hotel in Rapid City boasted the state's largest water park. Rather a waste on us, and frankly I was annoyed to have to pay extra to use it each day. In retrospect, a hotel with a decent pool would have sufficed. The water park was more of a distraction than a perk at first, although we were glad to escape from the beastly August heat wave blanketing the state.


Mount Rushmore was FABULOUS. We ate at the cafeteria--excellent food--and did a little hiking. They've done much to add to the entire experience since my last trip, the story of Mount Rushmore is well explained. Crazy Horse was kind of odd. If you go, definitely stick around for the video presentation--very informative.


Bear Country USA is worth it if only to watch the bears at dinner time:


It's the only place we lost track of a child.

We found Mr. G enchanted by the bear cubs.

Reptile World was awesome. We saw snakes and gators and crocodiles and spent an entire morning partaking of all they had to offer--including watching the Alligator Wrestling, which you can only see on Fridays and Saturdays. This was a highlight of our trip.

No kidding--I have a picture of me riding that tortoise as a little girl. Same one.

Mr. G gets up close and personal with a baby gator.

We dropped by the Holy Smoke Stables for a little trail ride. I'll warn you now, these cowboys are straight off the Texas ranch. I assumed that they skipped any explanation of How to Ride a Horse because we'd just follow in a single file line along the trail. That lesson might have proved useful since Mr. G's horse reared back and raced off course to scrape Mr. G off into a tree. Naturally, my baby was screaming and terrified while his horse went out of control. Cowboy Ron kept yelling at him to "Grab the reins and PULL!" But when you don't know what reins even are, those are pretty useless instructions. Cowboy Ron jumped off his horse and pulled Mr. G's out of the tree. Mr. G was covered in scrapes and scratches and crying. But cowboys expect a man to "Nut up or shut up" so with Mr. G's horse tied to Cowboy Ron's, we continued on our way. The path through the Black Hills was gorgeous.

Mr. T is a natural horseman.

Afterwards Mr. B begged us for a cowboy hat. And of course we needed ice cream. We stopped in Keystone after driving through Custer and finding out that Custer was nothing but a big overrated disappointment. And the Jewel Caves? Another bust. By reservation only--I was surprised that a National Park required those and that the guidebook didn't mention it. Keystone did NOT disappoint.

The Sitting Bull Crystal Caverns were fascinating. Even more fascinating than the caves and their history, however, was John, our twee little fifteen-year-old guide. For someone so young, he did an excellent job telling us all about the cave and guiding our group through the tour.

John, our amazing tour guide.

Interesting side note: The entire South Dakota Tourism Industry seems to run on the shoulders of teenagers. Everywhere we went, teenagers took care of us. They served us meals, they sold us tickets, they explained attractions, they led tours. And it was quite remarkable how these kids were without exception cheerful, helpful, hard working and well-spoken. At the end of summer, I expected to run into people burnt out from working with tourists, but I never saw anyone who looked tired or ornery. I'm telling you, reader, I fully expect the youth of South Dakota to take over the world someday. They're that capable.

Caves were the only chilly spot in the Black Hills.

Our guidebook took us 40 miles in the wrong direction for our chuckwagon dinner. A bummer, but we ended up at the Gas Light Saloon in Rockerville--a genuine ghost town. If you go to South Dakota, you have to stop there. The food was fantastic (homemade pepperoni pizza rolls!) and the ambiance all you'd expect from a cowboy saloon (live music--playing hits by Johnny Cash!). We explored the ghost town in the fading light before turning in for the night.

Shocking to note how expensive land and property goes for out there. Little prefab ranch style houses on 5 acres go for $200,000! Just crazy.

Wall Drug--it's as obnoxious as I remembered it. And totally worth dropping by.

Some new features include a water-play area--Team Testosterone LOVED it.

Wall Drug: Photo Ops Galore

The Badlands were hot and windy and eerily gorgeous.

Making it difficult to take a good picture.

And then we kept driving. And driving and driving. It was a good family vacation.

My only suggestion to South Dakota: Lay off the Sturgis/motorcycle promotions. It would have been nice to find a t-shirt or postcard or coffee mug without a biker logo. But if you're not in the mood to make money off your other tourists, you're doing a fine job!

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