The devil is in the alternate text.
My youngest demonstrates her grasp of plural and singular.
O2: I love you, Mama.
Me: Oh, I love you too, Punkins.
O2: I not Punkins! I just one punkin.
Me: You’re just one?
O2: No, I not one. I TWO.
This is what too much Amelia Bedelia will do to your family. You’ve been warned…
My kids and I just finished our first week of homeschool. It went pretty well.
S4 can read now. She can also write her name and most of “Nim’s Island” (but the latter only in black indelible ink on a kitchen wall).
O2 can count to 20 and recognizes both upper- and lower-case letters.
So I figure we can quit until about second grade, right? (Hey, I don’t know if my kitchen walls can handle kindergarten!)
I’m here! So sorry for the long absence. Thank you for all the comments on my Flickr photos, Sarah. I posted them last night, fully intending to blog them, too. But things have been so busy, and there is marathon knitting going on taking up all my spare time, so I have been slack in the blog department.
Let me just tell you that we have had something on the calendar just about every single day since last Friday. I am still riding the roller coaster, so to speak. There was company, of course, which was pleasant and fun and the time went much faster than I thought it would. We served dinner on the deck and everything was made on the grill, which my husband and guests thought was very cool. I cook just about everything out there now that it’s summertime.
On Saturday there was a picnic at my in-laws’ church, which involved some of this:
a little bit of this:
several of these:
and a lot of this:
If you are wondering why my childrens’ fingers look bloody, it is because they spent the morning painting. (What? Bathe my children before going to a picnic?? You must be crazy.) A friend, F, brought me this giant roll of paper for them to entertain themselves with.
S4 wanted to lie down on it and have me trace her, so she could paint herself. Who could refuse? Besides, it kept her busy while I was getting ready.
Can you see the potential for disaster here?
No, it’s not the cups of paint on the floor. It’s not the threat of tripping over a child sprawled out in your kitchen, either. No, the danger lurks here:
See those feet? Yeah. They produce effects such as these:
Thank goodness for washable paint, is all I’m saying.
On Sunday, we had ANOTHER picnic to attend with the inlaws. (I like my inlaws, so it’s okay). But I did not take any pictures at the picnic, since I was busy with other things. Suffice it to say that we ate food, visited and talked, and watched the children scamper about. It was lovely.
Monday was our big trip to Lake Erie. I have fond memories of going to Lake Erie. We did it several times a year when I was growing up. Early, early, early in the morning, before the sun was fully up, my mom would wake us up and herd us all into the family car. She brought a sack full of buttered white toast and a carton of hardcooked eggs. My dad was allowed to eat his toast and eggs while driving. We children, unfortunately, were not allowed to eat in the car. We had to wait until we stopped. It was a real catch-.22 for me. I hated eggs as a child, but I was also wicked hungry. Meanwhile, my dad would be up in the front, munching away. Dad would put out his hand and announce the item he wanted to eat next, which my mom would quickly produce, a lot like a surgeon in the operating room. “Toast. Stat.” Or, he would hold the egg up and she would dust it with salt. They were a breakfast team. After he ate, she would carefully pour him some coffee from our steel Thermos into its little green steel cup. The kids in the backseat watched every second of this ritual dining extravaganza with unabashed envy.
Inevitably, my dad would find some hamfest or flea market or mega-garage-sale going on, and stop to browse. Again, more torture. We wanted to stop so we could eat, but we really wanted to get to the beach, and he always took forever going through junk. I remember a radio shop about halfway between our house and the Lake; it sat on a hill, a red two-story barn next to an old farmhouse. There was a gravel drive, and we parked under a giant tree. Dad would go in and poke around while we had breakfast. I choked down my egg as fast as possible, and then washed the taste away by sucking on pieces of cold buttered toast. Neither were particularly good, but I was starving, and you tend to not care much when you’re starving. Anyway, anytime I see hardcooked eggs, I think of going to Lake Erie.
This time, however, we had granola bars and cups of water, and while I did wake the kids up early, early, early, I allowed them to eat their snacks while we were driving. I’m not good at torturing people just for cleanliness’ sake. That’s silly.
We took along my MIL, who I like very very much, and my step-brother-in-law (her son), who I also like very very much, and my nephew A, who is five and hilariously funny with his little facial expressions and running commentary. However, poor A was outnumbered, especially in the decibel department. My girls can belt it out. At one point, I think A asked me for earplugs and an aspirin.
The lake was a great day. We had good weather, it wasn’t crowded at all, and everyone had fun. There was some of this:
a little bit of this:
and we finished up with this:
Then there was ice cream on the way home, and then, since DH was working late that night anyway, we had — you guessed it — ANOTHER picnic at my inlaws. Fine by me. I don’t mind when other people offer to feed us.
Then it was Tuesday, and on Tuesday, I went to a spinning class with my friends M and A. This would not be spinning as in uber-stationary-biking that the cool kids do, but fiber spinning with a spinning wheel and fresh wool. Oh, what a hoot. As I told them later in my “had a great time” email:
Okay, so yesterday morning, I had this mental image of myself sitting fireside this winter, wearing a long skirt and in my bare feet, a heaping basket of freshly-washed wool next to me; in this fantasy, I was spinning contentedly and humming old folk tunes while my cat dozed on the woodpile and the children played with wooden toys in the corner.
My mental image is slightly altered now. There is much less idyllic calm and a lot more swearing, drinking and screaming involved. But I still had a good time last night. I would still like to learn this spinning crap. I’m just not so nearly inclined to go out and plonk down hundreds of $$ on roving and a wheel.
I would have taken a picture of my ball of hand-spun yarn, but it looks more like twine that the cat had been playing with. It’s not pretty. I’m not a natural spinner. But we’ll give it another try one of these days.
On to Wednesday. Berry picking day. We picked another 4.7 pounds of blueberries. The girls helped quite a bit (read: they ate the berries THEY picked instead of eating the ones I had picked). Then we stopped at the market and picked up some other fresh produce to put up for winter: peaches, peppers, and cucumbers for pickles. I’ve never canned any of this stuff before. We may be doing a lot of grocery shopping this winter. But then again, maybe we’ll be lucky.
So, Thursday begain the canning marathon; I started with blueberry jam (post forthcoming). It looks promising:
And then there were pickles, which looked beautiful when I made them:
The next morning, however, with the early sunlight streaming in the dining room window, those pickles looked an awful lot like something out of a B-movie science lab.
Still, I’m willing to try anything once.
On Friday, we spent the entire day with friends and trekked to a yarn store about an hour from here. I have good friends, friends who would drive for yarn. Those are the ones to keep.
Yesterday, we rented a cherrypicker. That’s a bucket you can stand in, and the bucket is connected to a hydraulic boom which can lift you up and out so you can do things like cut down tree branches. And this is precisely what we rented the cherrypicker for. We hoisted my father-in-law and his super duper chainsaw-on-a-stick up in the air, and he cut down some tree branches. Not too many. Just the ones that needed pruning. And then we took turns hoisting ourselves up in the air and looking down at our house from all sorts of angles. It was fun. And the neighbors all came out to see what we were doing with this amusement park ride parked in our yard, so that was worth it right there. I love being a spectacle. I will share those pictures later, because I have a bunch and the whole cherrypicker thing is worthy of its very own post anyway.
Tonight, the girls and I are going camping. We’re gonna sleep out in tents at my inlaws. We got marshmallows and chocolates and grahams to make s’mores, although I think my girls will prefer to eat the ingredients separately and uncooked, rather than in the traditional presentation. It’s okay.
Tomorrow night is knitting “club”. It’s the last thing on the calendar until next weekend. Hooray! The light at the end of the tunnel! I need several days here and there with nothing on the calendar. Overly-cluttered calendars give me hives and a headache. I’m looking forward to that blank white square that is August 12.
Then, maybe I can finally get around to the laundry that’s been piling up since August 1.
Cats are cool. My cat is particularly cool. Except today. Today, she is not cool. This is because it’s 88 degrees (F) outside and I am too cheap to turn on the air conditioning. Poor kitty. She is suffering.
How are you, Moxie-Kitty? Are you having a good day today?
I’m pretty sure that is her “I am NOT Impressed” look. Or maybe, it’s her “Go away, I hate you,” look. I get them confused sometimes.
Anyway, while it’s quite hot out, the humidity is tolerable. As they say in the southwest part of our country, “it’s a dry heat”. That’s supposed to mean you’re not dripping wet all the time because the relative humidity is low. That’s supposed to suggest you aren’t sitting around, stewing in your own juices, like this pot roast is doing:
Please do not tell the people at Le Creuset that I put my fancy french oven on the grill. Even though it’s a second, and even though it’s sitting on a “pot burner”, they still might get upset. It is probably not appropriate.
Also, please do not tell the people at Le Creuset that I am cooking a pot roast in my fancy french oven (on the grill, nonetheless). I think you’re only supposed to do things like cassoulets and poached fish in your fancy french oven. Whatever the hell a cassoulet is, of course. But what do I know? I’m an ignorant American. I pronounce the “T” on my Le Creuset.
(Not really.)
Anyway, I did not set out to discuss the merits of braising on the grill, except I can tell you that this is a surefire way to keep your kitchen a bit cooler in the summer. Not turning on the stove indoors definitely keeps the heat out of the kitchen, so to speak.
Nope. Today, I’m going to brag some more about my annoying garden. I know you haven’t had enough pictures of how the tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkins, corn, and mutant basil are taking over at our little homestead. I know you can’t stand not knowing about all the squash sex that’s been taking place the last couple of days.
Check out these pumpkin blooms. Go ahead, they’re censored:
I wouldn’t want to expose my readers to full-on squash sex. That would just be tacky.
Yeah, that’s what we do in our garden. Lots of sex going on, all day long.
There’s a money shot for you.
OMG, that was just gross. Okay, enough of this hideous entendre. It’s completely inappropriate and totally unnecessary.
In our neck of the woods, there’s a saying that corn ought to be “knee high by the Fourth of July”. It’s a midwest America thing. Don’t worry about it. Just go with the flow. Now, today’s the eighteenth of July, but I took this next shot on July 11, and I did it to show that we are right on schedule with things here in the garden. (I’ve been posting in a very timely manner, as you can see.) Anyway, as you can see by the following Highly Scientific Exhibit (“A”), we are in good shape:
Nothing but the best for you, my dear friends. Nothing but the best.
Anyway, I have done little else of late, other than to tend our garden. However, there is a little confession that should probably come out right about now. You see, with all this talk about gardens and curcurbitaceae sex and plants and harvests and whatnot, I’ve probably led you to believe that I’m a good gardener who mulches between the rows. Or at least, you’re probably thinking that I pull at least some of the weeds. Well, for this I apologize, as that assumption would be false.
For example, here is the pepper patch:
Really, truly, there are five pepper plants in there. Can you spot them? One of them is on its side, trying to find some sun amongst all the weeds. The rest of the peppers look like this:
Still don’t see them? Okay, here’s a hint:
No? Well, don’t feel bad. Even I can’t find the fifth one, and I know it’s there.
Well, anyway, I spent the whole day toiling like a migrant worker in the garden yesterday, and now we have this:
See what I mean, about that pepper plant on the right growing sideways? I swear, it just couldn’t get around all those darn weeds to reach the light.
What? You say there are still TOO MANY WEEDS, and you can’t spot the pepper plants? Well, shucks. I came prepared.
Is that better?
So, just now, when I went out to take more pictures to prove that I had, indeed, weeded a portion of the garden (but only a portion, because there’s still this: )
anyway, I realized that the punkin and cuke pictures were a week old. And anyone that’s grown anything in a hot summer knows that things happen in the garden fast. A week is like, well, it’s like a long time. Pretty soon, you have things like this:
My little babies aren’t babies anymore! Pretty soon, they’re going to be PICKLES.
Meanwhile, some of the early tomato varieties are really showing promise.
I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am about the tomatoes. I think my absolute favorite food in the whole wide world is a tomato sandwich on toast with a smear of mayo.
Now, lest you think I am some sort of gardening goddess, let me just correct that incorrect notion straightaway with this next shot. This, dear friends, is supposed to be a sunflower:
As you can see, it does not resemble much of a flower at all. I wonder if this leaf has anything to do with it?
Ooops.
Yeah, well there’s lots of holey leaves like that in our garden. This is because I staunchly refuse to spray for bugs, which – I’m sure – have an appropriate place in our garden. Still, it gets my gall when I walk by a once-lovely plant and see this:
and then this:
My policy on such bugs is as follows:
It is enforced with a thumb and forefinger. Gloved, of course.
In case you were curious, that was one of the mutant potato plants. They’re going to take over the yard, I do believe. Remember these?
They now look like this:
Look, this one’s even going over the fence:
They suck you in with their pretty little flowers, making you believe you have nothing to fear.
I know better, of course.
Meanwhile, there are some other lovely surprises this week, such as the Thai and sweet basils (which have contributed to a delicious salad dressing, recipe forthcoming):
(The purple thing in the center of the Thai basil is supposed to be there. It’s a flower.)
And here is a fun little surprise- mustard flowers. These grew fast. Like, 40 days from seed to flower:
I have these grand plans of saving the seeds and making my own prepared mustard. Heh. Right.
Meanwhile, though, the basil is quite yummy, and my Kiwi friends can grow some on in a sunny window while they’re waiting for their own summer to return. And when you do, you can try this recipe for Sweet Basil Dressing. I highly recommend it.
Sweet Basil Dressing
1 cup olive oil
1/3 cup cider vinegar
1/4 cup honey
3 T minced fresh basil leaves
2 cloves of garlic, crushed or finely minced
pinch of salt
Combine all ingredients in a mason jar and shake well. Let the dressing steep for at least an hour, then shake well before using.
Enjoy! crunch, crunch, crunch I am.
This weekend involved lots of self-pity and wallowing-y moments, but it did have some bright spots. It wasn’t all gloom and horrors, no; not really.
Since Independence Day is our country’s birthday (in a fashion) we celebrated the way we celebrate all birthdays in this house: we had a cake decorating party. And how can one be gloomy when there is cake? It’s hardly possible.
There was frosting:
There were toppings, in an appropriate color palette:
There was, of course, a cake to be decorated:
S4 commenced the requisite Taste-Testing of the Frosting (all-important, after my last fiasco with buttercream):
…and the verdict is….
…we’re good to go!
There aren’t many opportunities to photograph when you’re swishing frosting on a cake AND trying to keep your busy little helpers from swishing frosting on each other, the table, the chairs, the windows, etc. Thus, you must trust me when I tell you that we frosted the cake.
Then came the fun part. Toppings!
Of course, no amount of admonishing my offspring about saving the toppings for the cake could keep them from sampling the goodies.
At least they got some on the cake, right?
Speaking of cake, they did a really nice job.
And how could one have a birthday cake without candles on it?
Yes, those are sparklers on the cake. It’s the Fourth Of July, which might as well be “Fireworks Day” in our neck of the woods. Gotta have the sparklers.
And in case you think we aren’t cool or something, let me just say this:
and this:
Yeah, Duff Goldman. Take THAT.
In other happy-picture news, I peeked out at the garden yesterday, and guess what I saw? A baby tomato!! It’s so teeny tiny, but it’s there! And my other tomato plants have flowers! Wooot!
And there’s more. Oh, yeah, baby, there’s more. Like, my first nasturtium bloom:
Nevermind that little bit of red lettuce poking up on the right. It was in my salad today.
Meanwhile, we have a wicked cucumber plant doing all sorts of acrobatics on the trellis:
Do you see the little flower near the ground? How exciting is that?!
Sigh. Doesn’t that just make you smile? It does me. I can’t wait for all the plant sex to start. It’s very exciting.
It appears that the secret to happiness- in my case, at least – is to set cakes on fire and film plant pornography.
I must be really, really tired.
I like to get up early in the morning…
(NOT)
Okay, while I detest getting up early in the morning, I do rather enjoy visiting my garden at that hour when the sun and birds are awake but the children are still sleeping. It is a pleasant time.
My cat and I like to peruse our homestead together. She’s more like a dog, really, following at my heels. Sometimes, her nose catches the scent of an intruder and she’ll stop, just like any good watchkitty would, to see who is invading our slice of paradise.
Aha… so you’re the bugger who’s been noshing on my baby seedlings, eh?
Need I come out here with a copy of Peter Rabbit and remind you what happens to naughty bunnies who go into Mama McGregor’s garden?
(In my head, my cat is backing me up: ) Yeah, does she? Huh, RABBIT???
Lousy rabbit. Why don’t you hop over to Mr. L’s garden. He’s got LOTS of yummies for you.
It’s fun to go outside and discover things, though. Yes, there are pesky annoyances now and again, like bugs and rabbits eating your lettuces. But then you come across your bean plant, whose funny red kidney things have magically opened into beautiful little flowers, and you whip out the camera and start taking ridiculous pictures with the macro setting because you’ve never seen a bean plant before and are certain you’ve just discovered something A-MAZ-ING. Because you’re a dolt, of course.
Garden newbies. Ha!
Later, I discovered another fun new thing outside: my children, playing ever-so-nicely together.
Isn’t that sweet? They usually are sweet, but they don’t always play together quite this nicely. What a sentimental, touching photo this is.
Wait a minute.
Where are they sitting?
See what I mean about the minor annoyances? Oh, girls, it’s a good thing you’re so stinkin’ cute.
*Independence Days Challenge. See introductory post, if you’re so inclined.
Here’s an update- for my own edification, of course (and to be able to use edification, which is such a smarmy word)- on the Independence Days Challenge thus far.
This week, I planted mustard and borage. I have no idea what borage is, but the books say it makes a good companion plant. Everyone ought to have a good companion, I think.
I managed to snip a couple more bits of lettuce, but otherwise, we don’t really have much yet to harvest. But I harvested some strawberries from a local farm, and those were mighty tasty.
Well. It’s the thought that counts, right? Because I thought a lot about making jam with the strawberries I harvested. I thought so much about it that I got myself some pectin and washed out my jelly jars. Unfortunately, the fairies who live in my house harvested the strawberries right off the counter, so there are just not enough to bother making jam with. I’m going to try to get back out this week and get some more berries and try again.
Aha! This one I’m proud of. I have sworn off my microwave (except in emergencies, like when my husband wants a bit of fudge on his ice cream, etc). And I made it a whole week without pushing those little beepy buttons. The nicest part is that I don’t have to clean out the microwave, either. For some reason, that’s a simple job but I absolutely detest doing it. Bonus.
I got myself a copy of the Veganomicon, mostly because that is such a wicked good name for a vegan cookbook, but also because I’m trying to be more creative with how we eat – more veggies, more grains, less meat. It just came today. I’m so excited. Packages in the mail are one of life’s greatest simple pleasures.
I’m sure I did something here, but I don’t know what it was.
I went over and talked to my neighbor, who’s also growing a garden. I’ve only talked to him once or twice in the five years we lived here. He’s a nice man, and even though I think his son is a total bleepity-bleep-bleep, that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to the old man. We chatted about our gardens and he gave me some tips for growing peppers. Then he showed me his compost pile. Woo hoo! Turns out he’s another organic gardener. It’s very unusual for guys of his generation (in my region, anyway) to have organic gardens. In fact, organic anything around here is still very fringe-y. So that was a pleasant surprise. And then he gave me some lettuce, which was extremely tasty. I told him about my potatoes and promised to bring him some when they were ready to dig up.
I’m happy. Hope you are, too.
Meanwhile, my daughter just made up a great song, and I think you will enjoy it immensely. Here’s the lyrics to a song O2 is singing in my ear (I’m transcribing live):
I love my life
And I need my life
And I need my liiiiife, I need my lifffffe.
Mommy, I need my life.
And don’t be silly, you take a shower and I amma sing my sooooong. I anna sing really LOUDDDDDT. I anna sing REALLY, REALLY LONG. I anna be sing A-B-Cs. And I anna sing my life song.
–
Wow.
Here is the Grey Hunter, Moxie, stalking a poor, unsuspecting chipmunk.
Come closer, little chipmunk. I won’t bite.
That’s it… Hey! Where are you going??
Come back! I just want to play.
Come on. Let’s go to MY house.
What?? I’m a cat. It’s what I do.
This morning, I checked my bank account balance. It is $444.44. If that doesn’t mean something, then, well, I don’t know what means anything. And yes, I know that last sentence sounded ridiculous.
Last night I had a bizarre dream. I was in rural Canada, driving to pick up a piece of furniture that some strange guy had made for my mom. We took some sort of large van/small truck that also happened to seat people. There were people in it, filling up all the seats. (Where will the furniture go? I also asked that question in the dream. No one answered me.) At some point, I got out and rode my motorcycle, with no helmet and with O2 sitting on the seat in front of me. That would likely be because she and I slept on the recliner last night. It was her that was out of sorts, not me, which caused us to sleep on the recliner. I would have voted for the bed, but we didn’t want to keep DH awake with her crying. But that’s not important. Back to the dream.
It ran very much like a movie, with scenes that cut in and out. When I wasn’t driving the truck or motorcycle, I was in a public library. I was furtively hunting down books and stashing them into my bag. Just when I reached the knitting section, I had a horrible realization.
I can’t check these books out. I don’t have a library card.
This was quickly followed by:
They will never give me a library card. I’m not even from this country.
And then, because I’m a haughty, arrogant, piggish American, I fleetingly considered:
Canada is not a territory. It’s another country. I can’t force them to give me a card.
Damn.
Since there were no signs suggesting one way or the other, I opted to place my books on a nearby cart, rather than return them to the shelves. That’s the way we were taught in college.
Meanwhile, flash back to the furniture guy. We’re at his house. It’s the middle of the night. He’s about 80 years old and it’s freezing cold outside. He comes out of the house, which appears to be a tan two-story, and walks over to the matching detached garage. My headlights are shining on the overhead door and there’s an eerie mist swirling in the beam. That’s probably exhaust, I tell myself. The old guy pulls on a trucker hat, the kind that old guys wear with lots of mesh in the back and that sit high on the head, making them look like they’ve got cylinders on their shoulders instead of bowling balls. Adjusting his cap, he goes in to the garage. I follow.
At the back of the garage, there’s another overhead garage door. We pick our way around vague piles of clutter to reach it. He presses a button, and it goes up while the outer door goes down. A bunch of lights go on. We are in a spa.
This isn’t a nice, pamper-and-preen American version of a spa. It’s a Canadian-hick-man-who’s-80-and-built-a-spa-in-his-garage style spa. There are shower stalls, bathroom stalls, and a homemade wood box that I’m assuming is some sort of sauna. I ignore the sauna and decide to take a shower, because that’s what you do when you’re a foreigner in Canada picking up furniture from a strange guy’s house in the middle of the night and you’re not able to check out books from the library. Apparently.
Before I grab my shower, we check out the piece of furniture. It’s wood and has four legs, but I have no idea what else it’s supposed to be. It looks sort of like a long box, kind of like my grandpa’s record cabinet did a hundred years ago. It somehow gets shoved into the truck. The people in the truck (who I know, but can’t identify) squish around it and remain there, squished, in the cold, while I go back to take a shower. Finally, clean and refreshed, I hop on my motorbike and we head out. Minutes later, we are at a toll booth. I get my ticket, and then it is suddenly daylight. O2 is on my lap again. She’s squirmy, and I tell her that she has to sit still or she’ll fall off the bike. We nearly run over a lady who’s walking with her stroller right in the middle of the toll booth lane. Why is she there? I have no idea. There are lots of people walking, I notice. Maybe this is my subconscious railing against the price of gasoline, which has about doubled in the US in recent months. At least I’m on a motorcycle. I yell at the woman and she jumps out of the way. O2 and I zoom off into the bright Canadian wilderness.
Suddenly, it’s dark, raining, and cold. Rain + Cold + Canada = Ice. O2 is no longer on my lap, fortunately. I see the truck ahead of me. As it goes down a long, curvy, wet, icy, steep hill, I attempt to tilt my head enough to catch the glare of oncoming headlights on the pavement in a feeble effort to not brake on ice. My head is tilted for quite some time, as it’s a long hill. I don’t wreck, which is nice. However, my neck is sore. I wake up, and realize that I had been sleeping with my head at an angle. O2 is sleeping next to me, instead of on my chest, but she’s there. At least we both made it back safely from Canada.
I still have no idea what the furniture is.
And, hey, since you’ve made it this far, you’re probably the type who would want to play our Guess That Greenery Garden Giveaway. There are still a few days left to guess. No one has guessed all three sprouts yet, so give it a go. You are still allowed to enter multiple times. I haven’t added any rules yet.
Today, I took the girls to our local library. Wow, what a job that must be- to work in a library. All those books! All that reading! Actually, I know a librarian. She tells great stories about her job. And while there are some minor annoyances (most of them humorous), she makes it sound just about as great as I imagine a career in library science to be.
There’s one woman who works at our library who will disagree.
I remember this woman from when I was a kid, so I know she’s been a librarian a long, long time. She was grumpy then, and she’s grumpy now. How could you be grumpy if you work in a library? That doesn’t make any sense to me. And if you’ve been at it this long, and you’re still dissatisfied, it sure isn’t because the benefits were too compelling to keep you from changing careers. I vote for the library levies, and I can tell you that we pay a lot more in taxes to our local park than we do for the library. Why’s she still around if she’s so flipping miserable?
Whatever it is that’s got this lady’s happy-meter stuck in the mud, I don’t think it’s got much to do with the library. This woman is just not a smiler. She’s in the wrong job. She disobeys every basic rule of good customer service, particularly the ones that involve being friendly and welcoming. She doesn’t say hello when you come up to her counter. She doesn’t smile when you make the first move and say hello instead. She doesn’t smile when the card reader says beep after it scans each book into the giant database the government is keeping on what books everyone is checking out and adds it to your “Reminder To Return Library Materials” email list. She doesn’t smile when she hands you your books and a printed receipt. She doesn’t even say goodbye. I wonder what makes her so unhappy that she’s even miserable inside the library. That’s nuts.
The girls and I did a lot of smiling at the library today. We got twelve books, we made a butterfly and a grasshopper craft to hang on the Library Tree, we had lunch in the library cafe, and we read “George Shrinks“. Twice. I smiled the whole time, just because I could.
Oh, and later, while my children were (as always) “helping” me use the bathroom, S4 informed me that my butt had a beard.
I wonder if that lady would have cracked up or not, because it sure was damn funny to me.
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