camp rocks

Well, Monday's been an eventful day. But I'm not discussing that. Instead, I'll talk about my kids.

Being the unsocalized homeschoolers that we are, this morning we packed the girls' new backpacks, fed them a proper breakfast, stocked their lunch bags, filled their sport bottles and thermoses, and sent them off to their first day of Girl Scout Camp. It's an all-day camp, and they even got to ride a school bus (so cool). In spite of the on-again, off-again rain, they had a blast, and when I met the bus at 5 o'clock they emerged almost triumphantly, awash in smiles and information. There is stuff to buy (of course!) and they got t-shirts today, and there is a sleepover night on Thursday, and and and . . . They're very geeked about the sleepover night, so since the camp director said I can pick Emma up for her hip-hop rehearsal then bring her back for the campout, we're going to sign them up. Oh. My. God. This means slumber parties are looming in my near future. Nooooooooooooooo!

post without a witty title

Have you seen the commercial for Rosetta Stone? I know the software is popular, and I've heard it's effective, but the commercial gets me every time.

An attractive woman strolls casually through an immaculate home that just happens to have the Rosetta Stone package sitting all alone on a lovely glass-topped table, nowhere near a computer. She delivers her lines with a look on her face that tells you she doesn't buy any of your excuses. "Are you one of those people who think you just can't learn a new language? It's not that you can't learn . . . "

Now, tell me, don't you just hear your parents finishing that sentence over and over again, regarding algebra, world history, geography, spelling, chemistry, or whatever subject it was in school that tortured you day in, day out? And they never finished that sentence in a way that made your mental block someone else's fault, did they? It was never the teacher, or the text book, was it? Nope, it was always your fault you couldn't learn That Subject.

Of course, the Attractive Woman Selling Rosetta Stone goes on to assure you that if you just tried this software, you could dance linguistic circles around Dr. Daniel Jackson ("I speak twenty-four languages. Pick one.").

But let's insert some reality, shall we? After all, she's probably somebody's mother. "It's not that you can't learn, it's that you won't learn." If you would just turn off the radio and crack those books . . . If you would shut off the tv and get started, already . . . If you would quit wasting time on the internet and do something productive, for a change . . . If you would just buckle down and apply yourself . . . you would finally master Spanish/French/German/Mandarin/Russian/Japanese/Swahili once and for all.

Hmmm. Then again, I'm the kid that got in trouble for reading in school.

You Say it's Your Birthday . . .

Well, it's my birthday, too! (Okay, not mine, but . . .)

Yep, Penny and Emma are six today. Before they went to bed, they spent a fair amount of time ruckusing around in their room because, in Penny's words, "that way, we'll be tired and fall asleep so the night won't be as long." (You may think that the longest night of the year is December 21st, but it's actually February 3rd. Now you know.) They've also agreed to wake each other up in the morning. According to Emma, whichever one of them wakes up first will go over to the other girl and say, "Hey, [that girl's name], open presents!"

We've left their gifts for each other in the dining room, so they have something to tear into first thing. Oh, and there will be their big pink banner in the living room and two giant "6" balloons. The rest of the loot will have to wait until the evening. Oh, and dinner at the Moose Place (Bugaboo Creek) about which we've already said we'll be okay -- we promised to not die of embarassment -- if they want to have the staff come out with the giant moose puppet and a dessert and sing to them. Which, being 6, they want. So.

Happy birthday, Munchkins! Being your mom is the coolest, most perpetually satisfying thing I've ever done. I love you.

Masha Moments

It's been a few weeks, now, since Masha died, and we are all still stumbling upon Masha Moments quite often. There was no doggie clumsily wading through the wrapping paper on Christmas morning in search of more chewbones; no furry, wagging body hovering beside me as I cut up the leftover rib roast; no warm snoring lump to keep the blanket from falling off the bed; no need to leave the lights on before we left home for an afternoon and evening of shopping . . . .

When I woke up on Christmas Eve morning, my eyes were still stinging and red from crying the day before. I still sometimes burst into tears. Emma made a Christmas card for Masha which said, "Merry Christmas Masha. I sure miss you." She left it with Santa's cookies.

I finally picked up her dog bowls and doggie placemat as we packed for our trip to DC. There was too much room in the car, this trip -- no need to bring the crate or coax a little water into her at each potty break. I called Asia "Masha" a few times our first night with my parents.

Of course both girls are already looking forward, somewhat, to whatever new dog we will eventually adopt; they do understand, though, that Dan and I need quite a bit more time to be ready for another dog. They understand that there will never be another Masha. In the meantime, we've decided to start visiting NEADS for Puppy Petting -- because we do miss the smell of puppy paws, wet fur, dog slobber . . . .

Masha Baby

Stick a chewbone under the tree, for me
I've been an awful good dog . . . .

Goodbye, Masha. We'll miss you.

Vorpal Bunny? Not Quite.

Remember the garden I started up for the summer? Well, almost immediately, the rabbit in our yard ate all the celery. (Okay, I wasn't heartbroken about that because Anne, one of our CSA owners, told me that celery can be very demanding to grow.) We've actually done okay for the summer, with the rabbit eating various plants around the yard, and tending to only express mild curiosity in the garden. Until about 3 nights ago. I went out for my daily reality-check and lo! The carrot-greens were leafless! So I told the rabbit, who sat about 20 feet away from me -- pretending to be a rock with sharp eyes and a cute, twitching nose -- that he was lucky I couldn't catch him. (Because of course I would have put him in a hutch and fed him even more of what he liked until I could figure out what came next, with Penny and Emma likely pestering me with CanWeKeepHims.) The next day I dug up the carrots themselves before they withered in the dirt, and I threw them into a stir-fry. Yes, I washed them first. The largest two or three (carrots, not stir-fries) were about the size of those small baby carrots that the grocery stores sell. The rest of them were . . . well, we dubbed them Preemie Carrots. But damn, were they good. And I grew them. Pretty cool.

You can check out any time you like

It all started when we traded in our Subaru Outback and bought a new Mazda CX9. To their credit, the folks at our Mazda dealership have been amazingly patient through most of this as-yet-unfinished ordeal.

Apparently, when we paid the Subaru off, the bank never gave us the title. They sent us something that looked like a title (turns out it was an MA-1 Form, which masquerades quite convincingly as a real title). When we signed this impostor and left all Outback-related accoutrements with the Mazda dealer, the dealer had to call us back and inform us that we didn't give them the real title. I triple- and quadruple-checked our fire-safe box. Nope, no title. No problem, right? Simple oversight. I'll call the bank and they'll send it right out. Except for the part when the bank said they lost it.

Lost it? (So, I can lose my next twenty credit-card payments with no penalty, right?) We still have yet to get a satisfactory resolution with the bank on how they can lose the title for a car in which they had a vested interest. (Though, that's probably the point right there -- once we paid it off, they didn't give a crap, right? Not their problem anymore. Delete! Delete! cacklecackle)

Okay, annoying, but since the bank was able to provide a notarized letter stating that we did in fact pay the car off quite some time ago, we can call the California DMV and request a duplicate title. So, no problem.

Except for the part where the California FTB (Franchise Tax Board) claims that we owe seven years of back taxes on the car. Sooooo, we provide proof of registration in Massachusetts, effective seven years ago. Thank you, that will be 4 - 6 weeks for processing.

Six weeks later, we call the DMV. It seems that they've just moved our piece of paper from one desk to the other a few days earlier, and we will be called within the next 5 business days.

Six days later, we call the DMV. Our paperwork is being held up because the FTB says we owe back taxes on the car. (!?!?!?!?!?) So we call the FTB (again) and remind them about the paperwork we provided seven weeks earlier proving that we don't owe them the time of day, let alone any money.

It takes five additional days for this information to filter through the rat maze that is governmental bureaucracy and reach someone at the DMV. Great! Except for the part where nobody at the DMV seems to know what to do with this information (or, more precisely, how to hit the Print button).

Today, we get The Phone Call we're surprised we haven't received some time ago . . . Mazda really can't hang on to the Outback any longer without being able to sell it. We need to buy it back. Today.