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good times



So. First big snow (you know – you shovel twice the same day and then give up) and now a cold snap settling in. Why do they call it a cold "snap"? It's not so much snappy as freeze-y. Or even bite-y.

Part of the winter happy magic time is getting Oona properly dressed and out the door in good order. I can lay it all out – snow pants, parka, mits and scarf on the carpet – and leave her to it while I go make coffee, pack my lunch and carry bag (like a satchel, I'm always carrying too much damn stuff), tidy up the kitchen, get dressed myself, and *still* come back to her only half into her snow pants, and staring dreamily into outer space. Goofball. So this morning I told her, in the firmest way to date, that she's too slow. That she's not doing what she needs to do, that she's not really trying. And that trying was important because someone won't always be there to do everything for her.

But mommy always does it for me, Oona said.

Well, that won't always be the case. And then what? What will happen when there's no one there to do everything for you?

Because someday you'll die, right daddy?

 Yeah. Because someday I'll die. But let's think more short-term here.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

To the Guy Who Stops,

Sorry Guy in Truck – we're not going to cross the road just because you stopped. Yes, your gesture has a nice, fuzzy, charitable instinct behind it. But this is a four year-old I'm tethered to, and the sidewalks are glorified snow drifts, which is why we're on the street to begin with, at 7:25 in the morning, and we're not, in fact, waiting to cross the street, and we're not moving AT ALL until ALL THE CARS ARE GONE. My very simple rule for this goes as follows:
no cars = no death
See that car coming up behind you? Well, I've learned from experience that he *might* stop ... OR he might try to go AROUND. And then: UH OH, everything gets very squish-y and death-y. So, again, while I do appreciate the thought ... what you are doing, by stopping, is, in fact, the exact opposite of what I want you to do, which is to keep going, and disappear, so we can walk in the street again.

Thanks,
That Guy Who Shook His Head at You This Morning



*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

a fox

a bear

a lady, reading

moon casting

not another fairy tale

ambient kingston



*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

A great line from a Douglas Booker story (LA Women) – "Her IQ precedes her a good ten feet when you meet her ..." – that came to mind while experiencing the opposite sensation at the Shopper's post office outlet today. The IQ leakage coming not from the counter (for once) but from two guys behind me. There conversation sounding like Beavis and Butthead in the last stages of radiation poisoning. And finally I couldn't help myself; I just *had* to turn around and look. I don't know what I expected. Two badly bandaged heads rolling around on the floor? Siamese twins who'd been rendered insensible by gunshot wounds? A pair of talking bulldogs, on fire? But no – it was just two *really* stupid guys ... although one had a face like a rejected ham sandwich. And what were they waiting in line for? To ask the clerk how much it would cost to mail "twenty five pounds". Fools, I thought. That's waaayyyy too heavy for a bunny.
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