Whatever. Blah, blah, blah.

A mish-mash of what's going on and what’s on my mind…

First off, today Princess Seconda said “Whatever. Blah, blah, blah.” She didn’t say it to anyone in particular. She was moreso talking to herself and dissing her imaginary friend, I suppose. This is the only time in her life when sighing that dismissive “whatever” is going to be even remotely cute. I let it slide. Her imaginary friend can take it up with her.

Top five stressful life events

1. Marriage
2. Buying a house
3. Losing a job
4. Planning a trip to Disney World
5. Being drawn and quartered

Regarding number four, we’re going in November. The potential to spend way too much money is very real. It’s also very possible that come November I’ll be instead wishing for the four horses and four ropes. I’ve so far read an 800 page travel book and have logged 68 hours researching hotels, airfares, and car rentals. You don’t even want to know what’s involved in booking a reservation to have breakfast with Cinderella in her Magic Kingdom castle. To give you a hint, the authors of the travel guide seriously suggest synchronizing your watch with an atomic clock so that you have the best chance possible of getting a reservation during the two minute time frame each morning when the 130 dining seats sell out. And all this 90 days in advance of the day you want to have breakfast with her Royal Highness. Fairy Godmother indeed. What a racket.

Our Trip to Philadelphia

Took the girls on an overnight to Philly to visit a friend and her son.

Highlights for me:

  1. Seeing friend
  2. Drinking a lot of tea while chatting with friend on fluffy sofas
  3. Whitefish salad on bagel at the diner in Germantown
  4. Shivering in cold and drinking coffee with friend while watching children at playground.
  5. Running up the Philadelphia Art Museum steps a la Rocky. So sue me.
Highlights for girls:

  1. Seeing friend
  2. Staying up way too late with friend during co-ed slumber party
  3. Acting like goofballs at diner
  4. Seeing the slide show outside the Dali exhibit. (“Mommy, why does that naked woman have a lobster on her doopie (i.e. genitals)?”
  5. Running around in freezing cold park and smashing ice

Oh yes, while walking through the European collections to get to the Buddhist Temple installation and Japanese Tea Garden (we’re learning about Asia in preparation for Epcot Center), we stumbled upon the painting Death of St. Sebastian by Josse Lieferinxe (1497).

Here it is. Prepare yourself. Let’s just say that St. Sebastian gets a little edgy around bow season.

Death of St. Sebastian

Right. We have a 3 year old, a 5 year old, and a 6 year old with us. So, you can imagine the conversations (and nightmares) that ensued. Princesses Prima and Seconda were also impressed with the fourteenth century altar piece from Belgium which depicted the crucifixion of Jesus carved in vivid detail. Seconda was skipping down the museum halls, her eyes right at big-nail-in-the-foot level, when she ran into the display.

She still occasionally gets a faraway look and asks me out of the blue - during breakfast, while on the potty - “Mommy, tell me again why that man had a stick in his foot?”

And at this point in my reverie, I’m reminded of a my favorite hymn from the People’s Mass Book of my youth. It was called “Sons of God” and the tune sounded quite like the gay, see-sawing melody of Frere Jacque, just the thing to hum while skipping through playgrounds. For some reason, in the later editions of the hymnal “Sons of God” was pulled from the line-up. I’ve heard several reasons why, and the most likely was a copyright squabble. But, it was also whispered that the song was nixed because it went like this:

.....“Sons of God,
.......Hear His Holy Word,
.......Gather round,
.......The table of the Lord;
.......Eat His Body, Drink His Blood….”

Right. Pretty gory stuff. No wonder Anne Rice is a Catholic. (I don’t know that she really is.) But as a child, I didn’t think twice. I stood in the pew with the rest of my plaid-pleated classmates and blithely sang out the bewitchingly sing-songy Ode to Gore.

Or maybe it was the ambiguity of “Sons” that made the church nervous. That Cult of James just won’t let up with the “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” and “Down With Mary Of Clopas!” bumper stickers.

Anyway…here’s to banking on the hope that children take more in stride than we give them credit for. Although, Prima’s artwork has lately been smattered with Christian iconography. She’s been drawing Power Puff Girls at the foot of the cross. So, what are we thinking…send her to a nunnery? Madonna-wannabe? Or do I take her back to the Dali exhibit and let her have it full force - crucifixes and lobsters and all - then save-up for her loft in The Village?

And finally…


I have a very funny “broken snow blower” story that I’d like to post here. Except, my husband wouldn’t think it’s too funny, so I suppose I’ll save it for the tell-all autobiography. Meanwhile, we have ten more inches of snow on the way. Har-dee-har-har. But guess who’s going away tomorrow for two days? Not me. So guess who will be shoveling snow and gulping down ibuprofen when her tendonitis kicks in? You got it. Har-dee-har-har. Blah, blah, blah.

My mom’s staying with me. Maybe I can get her to shovel. She usually already has a chiropractor appointment lined up. Or whatever....

P.S. I've been trying to find a link to the photo of Dali next to the nude with a lobster on her crotch, but no luck. However, if you're ever bored, try typing "crotch+lobster" into Google. Bonus: Great name for my next band...Crotch Lobster.


anne said...

Did mom wear out your shovel yet? Maybe it comes from her mining genes. All I know is I never saw anyone shovel like her.

josetteplank.com said...

I was still pouring my coffee into my travel mug to take outside with me, and she was already finished.

She did tell me that I need to spray my shovel with silicon spray because the snow was sticking to it.

Can I use PAM?

anne said...

I prefer to use butter flavored...

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