Meanwhile, in Carbondale...

So what did you father do while I was gone, you ask?


Not much.


Not much at all.

Different Ways to Raise Your Hand.

One game we invented during our trip to the city was "Different Ways to Raise Your Hand." It is pretty self-explanatory, but the important thing to do is explain what kind of student raises her hand in the style you demonstrate.

This, for example, is the "Is he really asking us this, because who won't know the answer?" hand raise, demonstrated here by Janine and Alex.


Here, Alex shows us the "I've known the answer since before you gave all those extra hints and also I'm in fourth grade and have dunkaroos in my lunch, the thought of which is literally making me salivate right now."

Here's Janine's "Um. I know this one?"

And Lucia demonstrating the ever-popular "Yeaaahh. That'd be Dostoyevsky."

Everyday Lifer in the Big City (Part 2).

After a long day of intellectualism* in the garden**, my friends and I retired to an apartment, where we nourished our bodies with wheatgrass pellets and purified water.



We then engaged in a pastime that was all the rage just then (2012): gazing into devices for hours.




Except me. The whole thing mostly just confused me, actually. But I'm not from the big city.



*drinking
**beer garden

Everyday Lifer in the Big City (Part 1).

Children, I missed a day of informing you about my life. But with good reason: I spent the last four days in New York City, which was known as "The Big Apple" to people who had never been there until it was washed into the sea by global warming.

The first stop on my grand visit was a day of work, because life is not all fun and games, children. Here I am doing my freelance writing while a cat befriends me despite my clear dislike for her. (Her name is Mister Schweems, which caused me a great deal of confusion, but she is, in fact, female.)

This is your Auntie Lucia, grading her students' papers. How studious are we!


But once the work had been dispensed with, the (real) fun began.


My friends and I visited a rooftop beer garden so fancy I had no choice but to wear a feathered fascinator to fit in!


And of course, fit in I did. For this was no ordinary beer garden. It was an intellectual beer garden. As you can see.

If You Haven't Already Heard...

I assume this is all over the history books and so will not read as "news" to you, children. But I thought I ought to document it anyway.

Tonight, your father broke the lid of our popcorn pot.


How he expects me to continue producing fluffy, oily, salty, delicious popcorn when I cannot grip the lid to vent the bursting kernels, I have no idea. I just know that this is by far the most traumatic kitchen incident I have ever lived through.

Let's all have a moment of silence to remember the good times, when the handle was all in one piece and corn was so easy to pop I rarely gave it a second thought.


Memories.

Why Music Can Be Dangerous.

Children, you may think of music as a magical, otherworldly gift brought to us by the gods of wind and rhythm. And that's mostly true. But it's important for you to know that music also has a darker side.


For example, if a person put on some South African jazz while she was folding the laundry of a Saturday morning and found herself so energized by the melody that she couldn't help but dance along, that would be all right.



But if that melody then inspired her to twirl around and around, she would become queasy, a feeling that could linger all day, thus minimizing her ability to comparison-shop for produce and dairy-free condiments and prolonging the period of time in which she sauntered around in her striped pajamas.

So just keep your eyes out for these situations, children. Forewarned is forearmed.

Your Father's Filing System.

While I must admit that I hope you children have not inherited my utter, shocking lack of tidiness, I equally hope that you do not inherit the filing system your father uses to organize his clothes. At first glance, it seems simple: dirty clothes go in the hamper. What could possibly be odd or confusing about that?

But a second glance reveals that, in order to earn a place in the "dirty clothes" hamper, these garments must first go through an elaborate descent into soiledness.

Slightly worn clothes are hung on the back of his closet door.

When they have acquired a bit more grime, they're moved to the hooks on the back of the bedroom door.

Beyond that, I'm not willing to investigate. Because there are only about three pieces of clothing in that hamper. And he hasn't used the washing machine in weeks.

Consider yourselves warned.

An Unexpected Present!

Children, one of the things I have learned in my time on this planet is that presents don't always come when you're expecting them. For example, as I was devouring The Hunger Games this past week, I came across a most unusual marking on the book's paper.


At first, I thought the marking was from spilled water, as I have a tendency to spill pretty much everything I touch. But upon closer inspection, I realized that it was but an irregularity in the paper grain, which I took as an unexpected present from the Universe.


Now, if you happen to have the Universe's mailing address, I would very much like to send it a thank-you note. Because that's good manners.

An Adventure.

I know I don't write much on this blog about what goes on outside the confines of our humble home, but if I'm honest, children, we actually do leave the house on a daily basis (for the most part). For example, just the other day, we left to pick up some choice beverages at the liquor store.


Immediately upon going outside, your father noticed something bright and glorious in the night's sky.


"What could it be?" said he.
"Why, that must be Venus and Jupiter, dancing their 'beautiful waltz' in the heavens," said I.
"But how canst thou know this?" said he.
"Forsooth, I did hear of these events while listening to NPR," said I.


Truly, the planets were things of beauty to behold. And so was the beer we got. Only some of us had a little trouble trying to get it to work properly.





Siiiigh.

What Not to Wear (Horse Enthusaist Edition).

Well, it's happened again: the horse enthusiasm industry has continued promote equine-human sexuality in its tireless campaign to sell expensive farm equipment to teenage girls. Today's ad is particularly nefarious because it makes little effort to pretend it appeals to anything but the romantic feelings young women (appallingly) have for their horses.

Notice how this young woman stares lustfully into the middle distance while she fondles her unsuspecting horse.

To give you an idea of what normal horse-riding attire consists of (because I know no child of mine will ever have any recreational or romantic interest in horses), here is a photo of a woman actually riding a horse. Helmet, long pants, boots, jacket. Possibly chaps. And now notice the floozy in the picture above. Her midriff is bare, for crying out loud! What would happen if the horse cantered through his own droppings and they splattered? Her stomach would have horse droppings on it, that's what.

Cruel Denim company (the advertiser responsible for this smut), you make me sick.

IBOA Awareness.

I honestly hope that none of you children inherited from me the condition commonly called IBOA (otherwise known as Irritable Bowel and Orifice Affliction). At present, awareness of IBOA is abysmally low*--very few Americans even know it's a condition that can affect human people.

But I know about it. And now you do. I only hope that by the time you read this, research for the cure has "steamed ahead" as much as the disease itself has already "steamed ahead" through my digestive tract.


(On an unrelated note, while looking under the bed today for a lost sock, I discovered one possible reason why I've been sneezing more than usual lately. EMBARRASSING!)

*This low awareness is due largely to the fact that IBOA is, in fact, not a disease at all but an Irish bank. Lesson number one, children: don't believe everything your mother tells you about orifices.

Colors.

You have probably noticed, from living in my house your entire lives, that I love colors. I can't help it. And what I really love is a bunch of bright colors all together, like people of varying political beliefs allowing those beliefs to complement and enrich each other rather than people of varying political beliefs attempting to ridicule and cudgel each other.

So, for your aesthetic enjoyment, here are some of the many ordinary objects in our pre-you house that happen to be delightfully bright and colorful.


My (slightly gimpy) rain-detractor.


Socks for any occasion.


My feathery fascinator (don't tell the vegans!).

The decorative apron hanging from our kitchen wall.

The decorative scarves hanging from our living room wall.

The poster celebrating National Poetry Month (just one month away!!).

The quilt I made of old tee-shirts after reading the Little House series for the eight-thousandth time.

Oh children--perhaps your father or I are infertile and unable to have you and so you are adopted and thus of many fine colors! How honored I would be to have a magical rainbow of a family*!

Alas--only time will tell. I look forward to meeting you, future humans**.

*Open-minded or racist? Vote in the comments.

**To be fair to humans, it's possible that I will be deemed unsuitable to raise them and so will become the allergy-ridden version of a cat lady, which is to say I'll become a plant lady. With a focus on edible herb plants.

Where the Internet Comes From.

You may have never stopped to think about it, children, but the Internet didn't just spring into existence one day. Computer people had to build it and then writer people had to string together all the words that filled up the empty spaces.

Your father is one of the latter. Here's a rare inside look at how the Internet gets written.

As you probably suspected, the process of writing the Internet is whimsical and frivolous from start to finish, much like the Internet itself.

And as you probably also suspected, the only way your father maintains sufficient stores of energy to complete the demanding task of composing the "web" is to fuel himself with hearty helpings of roasted vegetables. Like these. Now eat yours.