Celebration of the Arts and Kountry Mist

Well.
Today begins a series that will appear on occasion and at my discretion to celebrate the arts. There is a lot of art in my life. A lot. The Free Dictionary  defines the arts as “imaginative, creative, and nonscientific branches of knowledge considered collectively, esp. as studied academically.” The singular term art is defined by the Irish Art Encyclopedia as follows: “Art is created when an artist creates a beautiful object, or produces a stimulating experience that is considered by his audience to have artistic merit.” So, one could conclude that art is the process that leads to a product (the artwork or piece of art), which is then examined and analyzed by experts in the field of the arts or simply enjoyed by those who appreciate the arts. In this vein, I submit the following clip to you. The process is my practicing. The product of beauty is my song. The expert enjoying and analyzing is you. The hamster boxes in the background are a bonus. They are the arts according to furry nature. They wouldn’t be in this shot if the Informinator had hit “Record” when we filmed this the first time. Today is the first time I have found a limit to what she can do. Hmm. As it was, I used a plate rack as a tripod and forged ahead. Because you can’t hinder the arts.

Wow. That was hard to watch. If nothing else, you can learn a few facts from the strategically located Multiplication Chart.

So, if we can attempt to move on, you may recall that the video-challenged Informinator issued a taste test challenge between the esteemed and delicious Diet Mtn. Dew and the shamefully named Diet Kountry Mist, made by Winn Dixie. They clearly don’t spend much on marketing. At any rate, I went into this experiment with unwavering confidence. No one drinks more Diet Mtn. Dew than I do. When separated from it last week on my travels, I almost had to hospitalize myself for the headache. Not really, but you understand my point, I hope. So here are the results on video.

YAY!

And this one…

Boo!!

After this post hits the web, you may want to send Todd some notes of encouragement. This doesn’t bode well…

The Disney Church

I have friends staying in Orlando, doing something with their own family that I have never done with mine: a week at Disney. Since I have always lived in Florida, with Disney in our backyard, we have always done the 12-hour-Magic-Kingdom-Cram. You get there as early as possible. You strategize about how fast you can run from one part of the park to another and which rides you do when. And you stay until someone is screaming and frothing from the mouth or until the employees are sweeping up behind you. At any rate, the friends I am with know how to work the system. They are all staying together in a house and doing a week of parks together. I am blessed enough to be over here with them for a short 24 hours, hanging out before their festivities begin. This morning, we all took off together toward church. I drove my van, with friends and Snugglemonkey. And we were following the other family members in their van.

Well, there was a little chit here and a little chat there and 1000 millions of cars not headed toward church. And before I knew it, there were two cars between my van and the one I was following. So my buddy located the other van and I cut across two lanes to follow them and take their exit. And off we went. Though the husband figure in the car expressed some discomfort over the road we were on, we kept driving. Because we were following our friends.

We passed the little statue for the Tower of Terror. We had a conversation about Disney changing MGM studios to Hollywood studios. And still, dumb as we all are, we were still thinking that we were on the correct highway and that maybe all of this Disney paraphernalia was due to Disney owning all of Central Florida. But 50 yards from Donald 14, my friend’s phone rang and the voice on the other end said, “Where ARE you?” Yeah, um. Actually, we are about to pay $18 for parking at the Magic Kingdom. I got the pleasure of rolling down my window and saying, “Yes, um. We aren’t actually supposed to be here today.”

“Where’re ya headed, honey?” She asked me. Um, church? Back to I-4, please?

Crazy times. Crazy times. You just can’t be sure that every 2011 Silver Dodge Caravan with a tall driver is the one you are supposed to be following. But if none of that clues you in, and you start seeing hoards of people and the big Epcot ball, you probably are NOT headed to church. Just a thought. One I didn’t really have in time to do us any good.

But the really good news (besides having had a lovely time with my baby daughter and my dear friends) is that I opened a fortune cookie tonight and this was my fortune.

“You will be spending time outdoors, in the mountains, near water.”

Wow.
That was specific.
And also quite false.
I suppose I could wind up there next Sunday on my way to church…

An Informinator Kind of Mornin’

It’s not a bad morning in my life that includes a You Pick Two (Sierra Turkey Sandwich and Chicken Noodle Soup), a Diet Pepsi with a splash of real Dr. Pepper (the Pepper takes the edge of the Pepsi, if you get me…), free Wi-Fi, a cozy window booth in Panera, and The Informinator. SnuggleMonkey was at Ms. Kim’s house for an hour or two.  I had called a Business Meeting. I am clearly enjoying pretending things that are not true.  Business meetings are fun. This is my second one this week.

I arrived early and walked through the establishment just as a super skinny college girl was vacating the perfect booth. She waved me in. I sat down. And I began to dink around on my little Netbook, pretending to be doing something when in fact I wasn’t even properly connected to their network yet. I called the Informinator. The following brief conversation illustrates why she is The Informinator and I am vastly uninformed.

“Hey. You aren’t here yet, are you? Just wanted to make sure we weren’t on opposite sides of the restaurant..” I said. That was a fairly smart question. I was feeling both smart and efficient.

“No, I’m turning onto 30th now. I’ll be there in one minute,” she replied.

“OK. Well, I’m in a booth on the side of the restaurant that lines up to the road that leads to the mall,” Now I was beginning to fumble, so I continued…”You know, I’m on the opposite side from Fowler.”

“You mean you’re by the coke machine?” She asked. Such clarity. Such precision. Describe my seat using the INSIDE of the restaurant, not the bush on the southeast corner of the parking lot that is across from Staples. Yes.

“YES!” I said. Wish I had thought of that. By the cokes is a little easier than the side of the restaurant that lines up to the road that goes to the mall. Good grief, man.

Anyway.

She also had to tell me how to connect to the free Wi-Fi. And 156 other things that I needed to know. She was proceeding to explain something crucial to the future success of my blogging when Man Calves walked up to the coke machine.  The fact that the fountain drinks were only 3 feet from my head was already a distraction, but this chick completely derailed my train of thought. I have never, in my 40 years, seen calves like that. They were huge. She was a thick lumberjack build anyway, but wearing the clothing of a professional legal secretary. She had a shortish dress on that came just above the knees, and heels. Heels that caused her calves to stand out like a bulging vein.

“Do you see those man calves?” I asked, incredulous. Elaine was in the middle of a sentence. To humor me, and because now she was curious, she looked over. She gave them an unimpressed nod.

“OK. So back to this blog,” she said.

“No, wait. I mean, really,” I said. “I think she might have once been a dude.” Now Elaine was looking harder.

“Nooo.  I saw her face. I don’t think so. People can’t help the calves they were born with…” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “They can do amazing things surgically nowadays. To faces…and torsos,” I said. “I just don’t see how those could be from-birth girl calves.” At this point, she had to make concentrated eye contact and say, somewhat firmly,

“Move on from the man calves.”

OK. Done.

But Man Calves walked up at least twice more. It was tough to look away. Really tough.

I learned a lot today, but I’m still pretty backwards on all this internet blog-savvy stuff. I’ll get there. I have friends in high places. Be patient with me.

The Informinator now has her own email address. It’s informinator@snappshots.com. If you would like to write her there, you may do so. Responses will be posted periodically on this site with answers. If you would rather skip the email step and post your questions in the Comments box, as we have done to this point, I say Hey! Let’s throw caution to the wind and do that! It’s early in the life of this blog. There are no rules yet. I don’t know what I’m doing.

To everything I asked today, she had an answer. So I will leave her with this one which both stumped me and almost stopped my heart.

Dear Informinator:

I do teach my children. We sit properly on proper facilities. We wash our hands with soap after each facility usage. And we try not discuss the topic 16 hours a day. So far, I’ve whittled the discussion time down to 13.5 hours. We’re getting there. But it’s hard to cover EVERY base. Sometimes you don’t know what small detail you’ve left out until the unthinkable occurs. Tonight, SnuggleMonkey (we’ll be changing her fuzzy little moniker after this story hits the internet) used her little potty seat and then took it into the bathroom to empty it out. I was reading a story to the other three while all of this was occurring. So I did not stop right that instant and sanitize the bowl. She returned with the bowl and set it beside her. Again, I was still reading as this was going on. Attention divided. She spat something out…loudly…we all looked up, wondering what was wrong. She looked at us and said, “Oh, I had to spit that out. I didn’t need it.”

OK. Well, I didn’t think TOO much of that, since it was excess liquid and she had spit it into the bowl where excess liquids technically go. And then she lifted it to her lips before all four of the rest of us could yell in horror, “NOOOOOOOO…” Too late. Guess she wanted that drink after all. Kids, avert your eyes! They will burn like acid with anthrax!  We scared her to death, all the “no’s” and dramatic gagging.  She’ll never try that again.

What could I have done to avoid this moment? What do I do to erase this memory and move on? What is SnuggleMonkey’s new name?

Thank you. With Man Calves and drinking problems having occurred on the same day, it is likely I will be up all night.

Sincerely yours,
missy

Looming

Did you know there are people in this world that still weave on looms? Like, I mean real-life people. People that are not reenacting 1898 at Cracker Country at the Florida State Fair. I ran into 5 of them tonight at Cafe Kili where I had a meeting with my business manager.

That’s Todd, by the way.

He likes the baby. Hates music on blogs. Doesn’t read blogs.  Doesn’t drink pina coladas or like getting caught in the rain. And is really smart.  I don’t even have to pay him. He and the Informinator are free to me. Somehow they just put up with it all.

Back to the whole weaving conversation. There were 5 of them with a subtle, yet elaborate setup, right there in the coffee shop. By subtle, I mean that the loom wasn’t the size of an elephant, like the ones I remember from field trips I took 30 years ago. But elaborate in the sense that, well, come on! It’s a loom. In a coffee shop. With a lot of sandwiches. So many sandwiches. And those needle things that you use to crochet things. What are those? I just toggled over to Google to try to find out the name and sound slightly more 1905. I didn’t find the name. Looks like I’m sticking with needle thing…it’s about 8 inches long, not sharp. OK, I need to move on from this. Anyway. There’s not a lot of information out there about weaving here in 2011, since most people now use the modern Target store, or if you are rich–Gap– for the shirts on their backs. But I did run across this on a handy little website:

WELCOME TO THE LOOM ROOM:
A Website Built For and A-“Round” Knitting Looms
& The People Who Love Them!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Right? What does that mean? The “round” thing is obviously supposed to be a cute play on words. I’m so anti-loom that I don’t even get it.

On a side note, but ever so slightly related…I played Monopoly with three of my four children today. I found it funny when Mamasboy handed me the thimble as my playing piece and said, “You have to be a trash can! Ha ha!” It’s not a trash can boy. It’s a thimble. For weaving. And looms. And those things that look like large blunt needles. Never mind. I beat them bad by the way, but my-four-year old owned Boardwalk and that cost me a ton of rent. How many times can you land on one spot?

Anyway.

I found the whole sandwiches, looms thing intriguing until I realized there was a sound scraping on my brain like a turkey call at 2 a.m. It was the loom. I looked up from Facebook and muttered under my breath: Oil.Your.Loom.
And I realized.
I’ve never said those words before.
Ever.
And in 2011 of all things.

Kite Flying in Suburbia During Rush Hour

It is nearly 10 o’clock on an evening that follows a bedtime of 3 a.m. this morning. And actually, that isn’t so unusual lately. It isn’t uncommon to find me at this here laptop at 2 a.m. on any given night. Blogging is ruining my life.

Ha ha ha ha ha. No, I am joking. But I do think I need to make this one short and hit the sack tonight. I’m not sure how long I can pretend to have acute Narcolepsy in front of the children during daylight hours.

Since it is early in the new year, with the dew barely dry on our dreams and resolutions (cue the pan flute), I will post a photo of Mama’sBoy’s goals for the year. These will give you a whole new respect for him. Feel free to let your mind wander. Just go with it.

Mama's Boy Makes Resolutions

Ah, phonetic spellings are golden sometimes.

Yesterday I went to a High Tea at my little Christian school from eons ago. Me. High Tea. I know. That is a post just waiting to happen. Though I did not knock anything over or bring screaming shame to myself or anyone else, I certainly was a less-than-obvious choice to be at a high tea partaking in froo froo doodads. I took good mental notes. When they have arranged themselves in my mind, perhaps those notes will arrive here. As I left high tea, the wind whipped up like a modern day plague and threatened to take off with me. I’m not easy to take off with, either, I can assure you. And in light of that wind, and the Informinator’s mentioning to me that she flew a kite with her kids in that, I thought back on a nostalgic scene from a few years ago. Kites used to be all the rage around here.

First, let me paint you a picture. Me. AG. MamasBoy. Outside in stale, 90 degree, 5 o’clock sunlight. There are scads of cars, with more scads of people in them, returning to the neighborhood after a day of work. And there we are on the sidewalk carrying a $6 ToysRUs Superman kite, worth no more in quality than the 17 cents it cost them to make it.  For days — weeks even — AG has come home from school begging to fly that kite. And each time it has come up I have managed a plausible excuse for why we absolutely cannot fly it that day.

  • There’s no wind (this one has worked on numerous occasions).
  • It’s raining outside.
  • You can’t really fly kites very well in subdivisions.
  • The planets are not aligned this week.
  • I’m too fat to run with it.
  • It just works best at a park or a beach.
  • Don’t you have homework…some cutting or something?

Today he sensed a hiccup in my answer; a pause just long enough to ask the question a different way. And for some reason, I answered it a different way. I said, “When I’m done folding the laundry, I’ll check the weather outside.” He lit up, went running for the front door, and shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll check it for you!” I knew where that was going. He only has one forecast. As I suspected, he returned with his one forecast: “It’s PERFECT!” Well, surprisingly enough, this time he was right. It truly was good kite flying weather, if you aren’t on a sidewalk in a suburban neighborhood with every neighbor in the whole place driving past you.
So, there we were.
On the sidewalk.
And being that my science is not up to par with my awesome cutting and pasting skills, it took me a good minute and lots of rotating in place on the sidewalk to even figure out which way the wind was blowing. Then, I had to figure out which way we needed to run with it. And then, all that was left was to run.
And we did.

AG held the string and the handle while I ran behind him with the kite and Mama’sBoy ran behind me bursting forth little random “hurrays” and the suchlike. We ran with a flimsy superman kite like an awkward little kite brigade, tossing it clumsily into the air when a puff of wind would happen past. And car after car passed, watching us thrash, enjoying the show.

Time after time, the kite looked us square in the face and said ‘no thanks’ as it bounced off the pavement.  Time after time, we walked back to our starting block to run with it again.

Only twice did that kite get airborne. Two borderline successes for at least 13 failures, but that was enough for AG. He stopped in the driveway, sweat rolling down his face, and said, “I’m done. I need a drink.”

And that was that. So now I get to add another excuse to my list for the next time he asks:

  • We did that yesterday.