So yesterday morning I volunteered to go pick up a bad-for-us breakfast from the local Sonic, because it is yummy. The 'cuda informed us that "I want my usual", to which her father took understandable exception due to a lack of "please".

"Your usual what?"

"My usual breakfast."

"You're missing a word, there."



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    amused amused

Her mother's daughter...?

My aunt, for whom the 'cuda is named, used to describe me as "she's a good kid, she just crabsteps to the beat of a different drummer". Best summarized by the mildly exasperated note I found in a copy of the IQ test I took when I was six: "Asked child to draw a dog. Child insisted on drawing a horse; when I agreed to the horse, she drew a mare and foal and told me a story about them."

All of which is to say that my daughter did me proud in the obliviously-creative department tonight, when her week of Vacation Bible School wrapped up with a little tiny (cute!) praise-song recital. As allll the first-graders were making airplane arms, the child went *twirl* *pause to evaluate coperformers* *twirl twirl twirl!*

Second verse is sung, then back to the chorus and more airplane motions. The music lady is eyeing 'Cuda with a mixture of amusement and dread (no, this is not my constant emotional background, whydoyouask?). 'Cuda evaluates the situation once more and bows to conformity. Sorta.



The scary thing is? I joke about sending her to drama classes, but when she gets enough into her role to forget herself and stop mugging for the adults, she's actually really good. Am skeert now. :)


So once they left their three-day Why Did You Put Us In A Foreign House sulk, the cats went exploring. And discovered that the lower kitchen cabinets are 1) connected from one side of the kitchen to the other and 2) open-able with a paw. This has caused them to be proclaimed Kitty Territory Forever (I had no say in this particular proclamation).

All of which is fine if you know about it beforehand. Unfortunately, last week we had a plumber out to look at something. He opened the cabinet under the sink and was nearly knocked off his feet by a startled Flat Cat fleeing for the door. Various dumbfounded looks were exchanged (I mean, how do you deal with "I'm sorry you mistook my cat for a muskrat on meth; it's a totally understandable conclusion to draw"?) and about the time anybody could think of anything to say, Fat Cat strolled out of the same cabinet, gave the poor plumber his default "Hi, how ya doin'?" chirp, and ambled off to stuff his face.

The bad thing? Is that we've got to get this guy to come back...
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    amused amused


The next time there is a political upheaval that favors my particular perspective, I hope I handle it with the class and grace that my liberal friends on Twitter aren't.
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    discontent disgusted

I still live

Moved. Sitting in new house, listening to trains go by while the cats radiate Shock, Betrayal and Heartbreak through the walls at me.

It has to be through the walls, because they're nowhere to be seen.

More later.

I live! Sorta!

Yes, I still exist.

Short version: we're moving 120 miles down the road to Kannapolis, a suburb of Charlotte, NC. Tomorrow. I have been frantically packing and cleaning for the last week-and-change and have therefore been completely out of contact.

I'm really looking forward to the move...my issues with Durham are, um, well-documented, and I've always loved Charlotte. I just want to have moved by this point. But, nice town, awesome house, and it's Not In Durham, so I could be living contentedly in a tent.

Moment of commentary: I love Mercedes Lackey's Elemental Masters/reworked fairy tale books. I do. Except for the part where she dedicated one of 'em to the runaway Wisconsin senators (listed reverently as "The Wisconsin Fourteen") and the most recent to freakin' Occupy. Which sufficiently soured my enjoyment of the sample I read that I will not be buying it in hardback, if at all. I'm sorry, I find myself sharply uneasy around a bunch of people who believe themselves to be morally Correct while citing the French Revolution. Juuuuuuust can't get into it somehow. I loathe it when people let their politics color their art (from the right, too; wish Dean Koontz would write fluffy bathtub-reading thrillers like he used to). Still miss Two Lumps, which I dropped after they went all Penny Arcade and followed an unfunny, controversial strip with one that was worse.

Last but not least: the latest from my daughter, who found the instructions for her pogo stick (YES, one of my relatives gave her a pogo stick, and no, I have not killed them for it YET) and read them one morning: "Mommy, do I weigh more than forty ibs and less than eighty ibs? The box says I can't ride this unless I weigh less than eighty ibs." Somehow I managed to keep a straight face...
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    exhausted exhausted

(no subject)

Would anybody on my flist be willing to beta a short, spoiler-free and unabashedly fluffy post-ME3 fic? Working title "What I Did For Antidote Day, by Urdnot Mordin, Age 6". Which I think says it all re: plot and characters. :


My six-year-old daughter spent yesterday writing "Secrets of Droon" self-insert fanfiction.* On the sidewalk, with sidewalk chalk.

There may have been cuter things occurring on this planet at the time, but not to my knowledge.

*"This is a story about me and Eric and Julie from Secrets of Droon. It's a further adventure, because I don't know what the beginning adventure was yet. *deeeeeep breath* One day Gracie was memorizing her Bible books when she felt like she was being WATCHED. Mommy was watching her, Daddy was watching her**, but THAT wasn't it..."

**This says quite a lot about my child's perception of the universe and her relative place in it.

Um, NO.

Seen on Twitter: "They were protesting, so they asked for it" is the new "she wore a short skirt, so she asked for it".

I have not seen analogy failure this total since my daughter tried to convince me that reaching page 85 of her math book was JUST LIKE level 85 in Warcraft so she shouldn't do any more today. I find it disrespectful to actual rape victims and ironic as hell on behalf of the ones victimized in Occupy camps.

And if I talk about it on Twitter, I will be shouted down by a host of people who went "oooh, pithy soundbite which mentions rape and is therefore UNASSAILABLE!!1!" I have absolutely no use for Occupy anyway; anybody who claims nonviolence while worshipping Michael "fuck small business" Moore and making veiled references to the French Revolution doesn't get anything from me but a snort of laughter and a resolve to lock my doors tighter.
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    irate irate

I am a bad, bad censoring mommy...

I Was flipping through one of my daughter's fairytale collections last night, seeing what was short enough to be read before bedtime and what wasn't, when I came across Hans Christian Andersen's The Red Shoes. I skimmed through it to see if it was the way I remembered it, and 30 seconds later the scissors came out. Because gaaaah. Way to teach little girls that wanting things is bad, getting them on your own is worse, and disagreeing with your elders will get you tortured and killed. ('Cuda knows that disagreeing with this particular elder will bring the Wrath of Mommy on her head, and that is quite sufficient.) I know Andersen had Issues, and I can handle the ones on display in The Little Mermaid and The Steadfast Tin Soldier, but I am not repentant about hacking The Red Shoes out of the book.

She's a good kid and is smart enough to handle most things that come her way, but that story in a book full of things she thinks are supposed to make her happy...just NO.

(Meanwhile, if I had time and mental energy, I could draw some fascinating contrasts between The Red Shoes and Lois Bujold's Sharing Knife: Beguilement, because Lord knows Fawn wants. And fails, and gets right back on her feet and applies all that formidable willpower to making things happen right...)
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    angry grrrr...