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November 2004
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shameless self promotion, 199 in a series

So the posting gap was little longer than I'd expected...

We just got back from five days at my mom's farm in North Florida. A good time was had by all, especially the Diva, who enjoyed chasing the chickens and the dogs.

New Austinmama column is live. I think you'll be surprised, unless you already know, then you won't be.

Now I must go make fudge. Mmmm...fudge. (Which I won't be able to eat, mind you, but it's still fun.)

random cuteness

From the Diva this a.m. as we were walking from the car to day care. Big, fat snowflakes have been falling all morning and she spent a good 5 minutes in the parking lot trying to catch them on her tongue. "Mommy," she says, eyes sparkling, "they're like feathers!" Awwwww.

It might be that you had to be there.

Posing will be light this week. Finals (and a couple of other things -- more later) are kicking my behind.

stinking up the room

I'll be the first to admit that I have been known to enjoy truly terrible movies. The Pirate Movie,yes, the one with Kristy McNichol and Christopher Atkins (that, hooray, also appears to be coming out on DVD next summer), is a personal fave. Still, a girl's got to have standards. Some bad movies are just too bad to be good, like the stunningly awful Greystoke, the Legend of Tarzan, which is still the only movie I've ever walked out in the middle of and is the one that triggered my longstanding hatred of Andie MacDowell.

But I may have found Greystoke's twin in sheer badness this afternoon. I had flipped on the TV just to have some random noise while grading papers. Hearts of Fire was on Trio and I couldn't turn my eyes away from the sheer, mind-blowing badness of this Rupert Everett and Bob Dylan (!) rock fairy tale. Granted, it was penned by the cratacular Joe Eszterhaz but you'd think someone could have made it work even slightly better -- or, at least, taught Everett, who plays an '80s pop star, how to dance. Yes, it is that bad.

Anna Quindlen, Anna Quindlen, Anna Quindlen

This is but a snippet. If you have kids, read the whole thing when you have a second between diaper changing and time-outs:

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons.What was I thinking?

From A Short Guide to a Happy Life.

weird story of the month

From the local (almost) daily, a lovely story about a bloody man, two stolen vehicles and a couple of scent hounds.

"We came around the corner and there were all the troopers, undercover cops, dogs, the whole bit," he said. "They found a blood trail and they tracked him like a deer."

It's like an episode of Law and Order, if Jerry Orbach hung out Upstate. While it's not quite as fun (in relative terms) as the marooned cow carcass, it is wacky enough (once you read the details) to keep newswatchers enthralled.

more sage advice

Neil Gaiman on telling your kids about Santa Claus' true identity:

My children have, on occasion, strongly suggested that there might not be a Father Christmas. They also seem very doubtful about the existence of the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and the Weird Knife Lady In The Attic. I humour them by pretending to go along with all this, but I keep my own counsel on the matter.

From his Journal, 1 December.