Some Pig

Watch This Space

I had this conversation about a million times today:

"What can I do to bring my grade up?"

"I don't know.  Did you check PowerSchool before the makeup work deadline of LAST FRIDAY?"

"Uuuuuuhhhhh....no."

"Did you revise the TWO ASSIGNMENTS I asked you to revise by the makeup work deadline of LAST FRIDAY?"

"Uuuuuhhhhhhh...no."

"Can you build a time machine, go back to the beginning of the school year, and redo the entire quarter before revisiting LAST FRIDAY?"

[[[blank look]]]

"Well, then, I guess you'll just have to try harder next quarter."

So, yeah.  I'm busier than the proverbial one-legged man at the butt-kicking contest.  I'll be back soon.

Welcome to the Family!

Because I have nothing better to do than complicate my life, we went and did this:

This is Moxie.  He's nine weeks old.  And quite a handful for something so small.

India is in love.

Celeste is in love, too, but she wants to hug him and squeeze him and call him George a la the Abominable Snowman with Daffy Duck, so she has to be closely monitored with him at all times.

Speaking of Celeste, she is adapting well to preschool:

This happened during the arsenic hour on the first week of school.  Herself was so tired, she fell asleep in mid-tantrum when I wouldn't let her juggle knives or stick her tongue in the blender or something else totally fun that everyone ELSE in the whole world gets to do, MOTHER. 

The beginning of the school year has coincided with some of the most stellar autumn weather I've ever been alive to witness.  We've been taking advantage of having several hours of daylight in the evening to do some outdoor chores:

We've been stacking wood and, believe it or not, the kids have been helping!  In fact, they've been ARGUING about who's going to push the wheelbarrow and who's turn is next and how long that turn is going to be and how much wood goes in the wheelbarrow.  This is a 180-degree turnaround from my childhood, when Auntie Sarah and I argued so that we could get OUT of helping.  It would be even more remarkable if their helping was actually, um, helpful, but I will take what I can get.

Then we went to a fairy house exhibition nearby.  For years I'd been harboring the fear that everyone else's preschooler was a budding Mies van der Rohe or I.M. Pei while my kid was throwing a handful of grass stems and pine needles in a sad little lump and calling it good.  I was relieved to see that the other "houses" created by India's age cohort looked pretty much the same as the ones India constructs; i.e., like a pile of weeds and crap randomly stacked at the base of nearby trees.  However, my kids were woefully underdressed for a fairy house tour.  Warren pointed to India dancing in a crowd of bewinged, besequined and betulle'd fairy maidens clad in her black t-shirt with the appliqued flower and a denim skirt.  "Caroline," he whispered fretfully, "she looks like a goth next to all the fairy princesses."  Indeed, she looked like Kelly Osbourne (pre-DWTS, that is) at the debutante ball, but whatever.  I think I'd rather have a goth/sk8ter girl than one of the gaggle of 16-year-old girls dressed up like anime princesses, replete with fluffy crinolines and tiaras.  But you know how I am about anime.

Well, that's about all from here for the moment.  One last thing:  I saw these great cookies at Stonewall Kitchen that were frosted to look like giant pieces of candy corn, and I want to replicate them. Does anyone know of a good butter-type cookie dough that's stiff enough to roll out thickly and cut into triangles?  I promise to post pictures of the results!

THAT Didn't Need To Happen

Right this very moment, even as I speak (type?), guess what's happening?

Mariah Carey is singing a remake of ... wait for it...

"I Wanna Know What Love Is," by Foreigner.

I don't think the world is a better place for it.

Letter From A Broad, Helpful Hints Edition

Dear Homeowner,

After driving by your house twice recently, I simply must compliment you for making the best of a tricky situation.  It is difficult to keep up appearances when one uses one's front lawn as a general storage facility.  However, I don't think that sticking a small table of rather fatigued looking knick-knacks outside as well and putting up a sign that says "yard sale" by the side of the road allows you to forgo the process of actually cleaning up your yard.  I'm just sayin'.

Sincerely,
Someone Who Was Not Put Up to This By Your Neighbors, Although They Have Every Right

Dear John Paul Jones,

"Caroline," Warren said to me as he watched you trying to launch the S.S. Minnow the other day, "I don't think he consulted the owner's manual."

I gave him the stink-eye, for my mate is not one to prate about having paranormal abilities. Suddenly he's claiming omniscience?  "Why is that, dear?" I replied.

"Because generally you need wind to go sailing," he responded.  And indeed, he was right.  Perhaps you should take that under advisement before you try to go sailing on a hazy, humid, and more to the point, perfectly breezeless August afternoon.  Otherwise you might wind up, oh, I don't know - drifting aimlessly around the boat launch in front of seventy-five people or so?  Getting the keel hung up on the buoy lines marking off the swim area, perhaps?  Whoever said, "don't give up the ship," I'm pretty sure was NOT talking to you.

Fair winds and following seas!

SP

Dear Canada,

Having spent a week vacationing in your friendly climes, I must admit I have found much to admire about our northerly neighbor.  The province of Quebec strikes a lovely balance between New World convenience and European culture... which is a fancy way of saying I can get behind a place where everyone speaks with a cool accent but they use English when I run out of my high school French.  Having availed myself of your hospitality several times, along with a few chocolate croissants and a crepe or two, I have often wondered why Canadians don't suffer from the same plague of obesity that we U.S. residents are so prone to.  I'm not saying you can't find a hefty critter or two north of the forty-eighth parallel, but it is proportionately much rarer.

Well, now I know why.

After spending the night in Vermont, we bundled the girls into the car at half-past early o'clock and started off for points north.  We figured we'd snack 'em up on cereal bars, which would last long enough to get us north of the border, then stop for a proper breakfast.  We went through Checkpoint Charlie without a hitch (except for the fact that we didn't know both our passports had expired, which is a sad commentary on how little exotic adventure yours truly enjoys these days).  Then we proceeded to look for a suitable breakfast place. 

And we looked.

And we looked.

And we looked.

WTF, Canada?  What do you have against people who want to eat food?  We drove for hours - literally HOURS - on a major highway, and could not find ANYPLACE to eat that was actually open and actively serving food.  We even detoured through a fairly sizeable town, and the only thing we could find was a Tim Horton's on the wrong side of the highway.  Out of sheer desperation we wound up stopping at a convenience store for granola bars and juice, which at least stopped the ceaseless chorus of "When are we going to eat, Mommy?  Mommy, I'm hungry," with accompanying percussion (i.e., kicking my seat back).  But still, one granola bar and some juice does not a breakfast make when you've got pancakes and eggs on the brain. 

So now I know why Canadians suffer less from obesity.  It's a big country, and I'm sure you have to truck around a fair bit to get from point A to point B - and there's nothing to eat along the way!  Sheesh, you can't go five minutes in any direction on a highway around here without finding half a dozen places to eat!  That may be a little excessive, granted, but could you maybe find a happy medium before we come up for our next visit?

Thanks,

Le Cochon

PS Notice how I refrained from saying, "eh?" anywhere in that letter?  I'm so proud of me!

Dear XM Satellite Radio,

For once in my life I have only good to say about something, as regards the trip mentioned above.  We took my husband's car, the one with the XM satellite radio and the kids' music channel.  Based on a strong desire to keep the smaller passengers happy and (relatively) easy to handle, we listened to kids' music for about 80% of the ride to and from our vacation.  Let me tell you, it was nothing short of a revelation!  I got to listen to songs I haven't heard twenty zillion times before, I didn't have to buy seventeen different CDs, and I didn't ONCE feel like stabbing anyone! AND... there was NO Wiggles.  Not One. Single. Song.  (And before my readership accuses me of hating on the Wiggles, rest assured, I loves me some antipodean vocalizing, but really - haven't we all heard "Get Ready to Wiggle" a million times or more already?)  I even found myself looking forward to certain songs, and hoping they'd be played again!  Truly the best $12.95 we spent this month.

Sincerely,

A Satisfied Consumer

The Muse Has Fled

Actually, she hasn't fled.  I think she's buried under a mountain of unfolded (but clean!) laundry.  I also think I heard her screeching earlier at the top of her lungs, "WHY MUST I ASK THREE TIMES FOR YOU GIRLS TO DO THE SIMPLEST THING?"  I know I heard her muttering under her breath, "It's gotta be five o'clock somewhere, dammit!" as she headed for the wine bottle.  I also know that she hasn't been residing anywhere near my brain lately, as I haven't been able to come up with much blog fodder lately.  And we're going to be here, there, and everywhere for the next week.  So I will see you after next week, I guess.  Meanwhile, if you see a frazzled-looking muse hitchhiking away from the First In The Nation Primary State, tell her in no uncertain terms she needs to get right back here, young lady, she has a job to do!

EDITED TO ADD:

Looky here, I write off a whole week and blammo!  Something to share!

I am an inconsistent cook when it comes to dinner.  A home-cooked feast replete with side dishes and dessert one night may be followed by two or three nights of mac'n'cheese and leftovers.  My cooking muse is, apparently, just as fickle and prone to distraction as my writing muse.  Perhaps a little bump of Adderall?  Anyway, I was staring starvation in the eye when this dish just kinda ... happened.  [NB:  Please note that my children had mashed potatoes and peas for dinner, and Celeste had corn.  Why?  Because that is all India would deign to eat, and damned if I'm going to be a short-order cook for short-statured people!)

You will need:

3 - 4 big uncooked shrimps per person

1 small to medium tomato per person

angel hair pasta

garlic, olive oil, butter, salt, pepper, Parmesan, lots thereof

Surprise last-minute ingredient to be named later

Put a healthy chunk of butter and a roughly equal amount of olive oil in a skillet and heat.  (No, I don't have an exact amount - what am I, the Bureau of Weights and Measures?  Eyeball it!)

Chop, smoosh, or otherwise prepare the garlic for saute'ing and then put in the hot butter and oil.  Let it cook til it just starts to brown.  Dump in the shrimps and stir.  They will cook quickly.  If the shrimps have any liquid with them, dump that in too.  It's all flavor!  When they are nearly cooked, pull them out and set them aside.

Chop the tomatoes up and put them in the oil/butter/garlic/shrimp juice yumminess for as long as you want.  If you like your tomatoes more raw, just warm them a little.  If you like them cooked, cook 'em.  If you don't like tomatoes, well, this is the wrong recipe for you.

Boil the water I forgot to tell you to put on for the pasta.  While the pasta is cooking (two minutes! love it!), grate as much Parmesan and as little of your knuckles as you can.  Drain the pasta.  Turn off the heat under the skillet with the stuff in it and put the shrimps back in.  Put a buttload of salt and pepper and cheese on the pasta, then top with the sauce.  If you are feeling reaaaaalllllly decadent, put an extra pat of butter on top of the pasta first.  Right before you put the sauce on the pasta, spy a serving of leftover peas your kids didn't eat for dinner and dump 'em in too (surprise!).  Sit back and feast, giving silent thanks to your cooking muse for helping you put dinner together in fifteen minutes, give or take.

Twinkletoes

I went over to my teaching buddy Sarah's house last week and I fell hopelessly in lust.  No, not like THAT, people, get your minds out of the gutter!  (Although you are pretty smokin', Sarah - I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers!  If I ever decide to switch sides, I'll call ya.)  My feelings weren't triggered by looks or intellect or the ability to find the mot juste.  No, I fell in lust with her TOES.

I know this will surprise my readership, accustomed as you are to thinking of me as an arbiter of class and grace (snort), but I have just the faintest smidge of a hint of tackiness about me.  I may look all plain-Jane on the outside, but inside is a Marilyn Monroe, breathily proclaiming that diamonds are a girl's best friend (and good-quality imitation is just fine, too, authenticity be damned).   I loves me nearly anything sparkly and glittery and sequined.  I secretly envy pageant contestants their fancy ball gowns, and my one regret about my wedding is that I didn't go dress shopping and indulge my inner diva by trying on ridiculously elaborate dresses, if only for a few hours.  Sadly, my budget and lifestyle are such that my zest for zircons, my desire for diamonds remains largely unfulfilled and is likely to stay that way on a day-to-day basis.

BlogWho?

Apparently since I'm a lady person with all them girl-type parts, I'm supposed to be disappointed not to have attended BlogHer '09 right now.  I gather I was willing to sell my material possessions to get there, then spend hours agonizing over my wardrobe choices, while I gleefully anticipated seeing all my bloggy friends at all the cool BlogHer parties.   And then if that didn't pan out, I'm supposed to be devastated for, like, weeks over my BlogHer non-attendance before realizing that, hey!  There's gonna be a BlogHer '10! 

My non-history with BlogHer ranges from confusion during my early days of blogging (what is this BlogHer of which they speak?) to twinges of jealousy (why do all the popular bloggers get invited to go and I don't?) to - well, now.  After reading a zillion omigod-I'm-going-to-BlogHer-posts I began to wonder if I weren't missing out somehow.  I mean, everyone says it's lifechanging!  empowering!  invigorating!  rejuvenating!  So I looked deep, deep within me, to listen to what my heart of hearts had to say.  "Heart," I asked, "do I really, really want to go to BlogHer, and I just don't know it yet?"  And my heart responded:

Meh.

Much as I would love to dump my kids for a week and get the hell outta Dodge pursue my personal growth and development, there are a few dozen other things I'd rather do before going to a conference. I'm sure that BlogHer is invigorating and rejuvenating, et cetera, et alia, but at the root of it all, it's still just a conference.  I took a gander at the website to see what could possibly be so compelling that everyone wants to sell a kidney and rush off to middle America.  That still didn't illuminate matters any.  For example, I could go to a breakout session called "Identity/Passions: PatientBloggers - You Are Not Your Disease, You Just Blog About It Every Day". Or I could just look up the blogger and her website and read the archives in the comfort of my own home, minus the trip through O'Hare and the lost luggage. The business presentations looked even worse - the last thing I want to do with my free time is go to a breakout session titled "Welcome Presentation including 2009 Women and Social Media Study presentation."  A Presentation presentation?  Sounds, um, fun?

Are You There, God? It's Me, Some Pig.

Dear God,

Yeah, yeah, I know - the atheist isn't supposed to be talking to the ceiling and thinking someone's actually listening.  But I will admit, You played Your hand pretty well the other day.  I'm not accusing You of causing the flat tire, mind You; I still believe the universe can be a pretty random place and sometimes a flat is just a flat, Y'know?  But You have to admit, the circumstances were far, FAR less from ideal - there I was, on a road with almost no shoulder, weekend traffic rushing by in both directions, stuck with two little kids in the car on a hot summer's day.  You probably heard me cursing and freaking out as I emptied the trunk of the eighty cubic feet of junque we need to go visiting for the weekend, but don't worry, I was cursing Warren and not You.  (By the way, these kinds of minor calamities ALWAYS happen when I have two kids on my hands and no husband around - ALWAYS.  Why is that, Lord?  Still pissed off at Eve over that apple foofaraw?  Eternity's a long time to hold a grudge, Big Guy.  Just sayin'.)  I had also just realized that - oops - I've never changed a flat on this particular car, and in fact, I have no idea where the jack might be stowed.  Add to that a run-down cellphone battery and a location reasonably far away from any form of motorized help and, well, You can imagine my delight.

No sooner had I finished lugging all the crap out of the trunk to the side of the road when Santa Claus himself pulled up behind me - if Santa Claus were a clean-shaven little Frenchman, that is.  Otherwise, he had a definite aura of the Jolly Old Gent to him.  Snow-white hair?  Check.  Smile lines at the corner of his beaming eyes?  Check.  Kindly expression?  Check.  Before I could say "why the hell is my husband always several states away when this kinda sh!t happens," he had my car jacked up and the wheel changed.  "Hey!" he said, "Today's your lucky day!  I didn't even have my jack in the car this morning."  Then he mentioned that he just happened to put his heavy-duty jack back in his truck at the last minute before he left, and that he just happened to be on the road right then because his plans changed at the last minute too.  "Guess everything happens for a reason," he said, putting his tools away.  As I trailed him uttering as many thank-yous as I could, he pressed a small booklet into my hand.  "Here's a little information about getting saved," he said, before setting off down the road. 

So I break down on the side of the road, and You send Santa Claus to fix my tire AND save my soul?  Well played, God, very well played.  I'll move my peg from the "atheist" to the "agnostic" column again.

Now if You had REALLY wanted to seal the deal, You'd have seen to the tire replacement process.  In the name of Your only begotten Son, I ask, what the heck?  How on earth could it take eight hours, a zillion phone calls, three different repair shops, several emails and an hour's car ride to fix one measly tire???  Clearly in Your infinite wisdom You decided that what is easily gained is easily lost, and You are known for moving in mysterious ways.  So we'll see.  Meanwhile, am I supposed to interpret all this rain in Biblical terms or not?  If I need to build an ark, I wouldn't mind a little heads up beforehand, 'K?

Adventures of A Stay-At-Home Mom

I realize blog posts have, ironically, gotten a little thin on the ground now that I have this free time since vacation started.  Apparently I need my outside job to stimulate my brain - if I blogged about my thinking these days, my blog posts would consist of me whining about how much of stay-at-home momery consists of tedium and repetition.  Not that I don't love being part of my girls'  lives, of course!  I love it!  Every minute of it!  Because no one has a more significant influence on a child than a mother, and every fiber of my being wants to ensure that my girls are the most well-adjusted, lovingly nurtured, - oh, forget it.  Basically, my day consists of being the doorman for a petulant cat and the sounding board for two of the most talkative creatures who ever breathed air on this planet.  The soundtrack of my days sounds something like this:

Mommy!  Mommy!  Is this a joke?  What did the bunny say to the tree?  Come here because I'm going to

The wheels on the bus go wound and wound!  Wound and wound!  Mommy, will you sing wiff me?

eat you!  Is that a funny joke, Mommy?  Why isn't it a funny joke?  Can you tell me a joke?  You know

Mommy, can I have a wamwich for lunch, Mommy?  I want a wamwich.  I want a wamwich WIGHT NOW.

what, Mommy?  Know what?  The fairies told me a secret and they said I can't tell Ceecee. Wanna hear it?

I dropped my 'lip-'lop, Mommy.  Mommy, I dropped my 'lip-'lop.  Can you get my 'lip-'lop, Mommy?

Lather, rinse, repeat from wake-up until way, waaaay too late at night, because of course bedtimes have gone all to hell now that it's summer vacay and the sky is still light at late-thirty o'clock.  Meantime, here are a few thoughts that have been kicking around the ole cranium of late.  Enjoy!

Great Minds Think Alike

We are at a local amusement park/kiddie zoo with my friend and her two girls, who are of an age with mine.  The eldest girl has anointed herself Queen and India as Princess as befits their age and status as big sisters.  We are in line for the Ferris wheel, which is moving only slightly more rapidly than the post office stamp line at tax time, and the two older girls are lording it over the little sister like Mean Girls Junior.

Oldest Girl:  Hey!  You can't get ahead of us!  We're royalty.

Me (to myself): You're royal all right.

Friend (laughing):  Hey, that's just what I was thinking!

Me:  A royal pain in the neck, that is.

Man in front of us (clearly a veteran of the parent wars):  The lower neck.

News of the Weird, Political Edition

So Sarah Palin upped and quit her job as a way of proving that she's, um, not a quitter. Now aren't you glad you listened to me and didn't elect this lady as Veep?  She's nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake and battier than a New England barn.  Even Open-Mouth-Insert-Foot himself, Mr. Say-It-Ain't-So Joe Biden would have to get up pretty darn early in the gosh-dang patriotic mornin' to be nearly as wackadoodle as Her Gov'ship.  What I particularly love about Palin's resignation is how she's put on this wounded-yet-brave act about how the evil, evil media has treated her and her family.  In response to that, I present Exhibit A:

Now I ask you, does this look like a woman who's been victimized, misrepresented, and hounded out of office?  No, this looks like a woman who's competing for the local Mrs. Patriotic America title, replete with American flag and military offspring banner.  Clearly Palin never saw a camera she didn't love, especially when she knows the story's going to be complimentary.  The circa-1983 pep-squad pose she's striking is a wee bit cringeworthy in a woman in her 40's, I have to say.  C'mon, the last time I vamped like that was in 1985, for the basketball cheerleaders' yearbook photo (if memory serves correctly, I had enough AquaNet on my head to crack the ozone layer my very own self and so much mascara on I could barely see, but that is another story).  This picture is from a photo shoot La Palin did for Runner's World, and Sarah being Sarah, she waxes enthusiastic about how much she just loooves runnin' because she can just be her gosh darn ol' genu-wine 100% ordinary Amurrican self, while all the pictures show someone who is far too well-groomed and absurdly cheerful to have just finished doing anything as painful and boring as running.  Well, you can take the woman out of the pageant...

News of the Weird, Celebrity Edition

So I managed to avoid 99% of the Michael Jackson memorial, until I was trapped in front of the TV at the gym and had to watch (and watch and watch) the clip of Paris Jackson extemporaneously eulogizing her dad.  I found it by turns both gut-wrenching and stomach-turning: Gut-wrenching because that poor girl was so clearly completely overwhelmed by grief, and what reasonable human being can't sympathise to some extent with the profound loss all three of those children have suffered?  And stomach-turning because that clip has been played over and over and over again to satiate our voyeuristic desire to feel included in a now-dead celebrity's life.  Really, do we have absolutely no sense of decency left as a social unit?  The ceremony was intended for broadcast, and the adults there knew that whatever happened there would be fair game for the media, but Paris is a child. Does her private sorrow really need to be fodder for the public's appetite for news?

I was also intrigued by the very Rev. Sharpton's epigrammatic statement to Jacko's kids.  Here I'm referring to the oft-quoted comment that, "Your daddy wasn't strange.  What happened to your daddy was strange."  The man sure has a way of looking reality right in the eye and denying it, doesn't he?  Okay, Michael Jackson's life was not conventional by any means, and the circumstances of growing up in enormous fame certainly are rare - but let's face it, the guy was a wee bit eccentric around the edges. I don't think it detracts from the man's reputation or the gravity of events for us to acknowledge that he was unusual.  HE LIVED IN AN AMUSEMENT PARK WITH A CHIMP NAMED BUBBLES, PEOPLE.  Now if your new neighbor up the street set up a Tilt-A-Whirl and a menagerie in the back yard, would you be thinking, "Oh, ho-hum, another day in the neighborhood," or would you be just the least little bit curious about how things worked upstairs?  Yeah, I thought so.

Can I Be An Unreal Housewife, Too?

A friend begged me to write a post about the Real Housewives of New Jersey recently, but what can I say that wouldn't be simply stating the obvious?  The whole show is so over the top, it speaks for itself.  I will gild fine gold just long enough to point out that the premise of the show is predicated upon a complete falsehood.  My SAHM life sure ain't no reality show fodder, and I think my experience is far more of a piece with the typical SAH experience than those ladies'.  The show is about "real" housewives as opposed to "fictional," but not "real" as in "typical."  I have never seen any of these women lose their sh*t because their kids can't find shoes and they're late for a doctor's appointment, for instance - that's reality.  Sometimes I amuse myself by making up fake TV guide listings for episodes of Real Housewives of Some Pig:

"Caroline and India have a screaming fight about whether or not India needs to get dressed right now, young lady; Caroline's head explodes."

"Celeste pees like a racehorse all over the floor ten minutes after Caroline just told her to use the potty; Caroline utters curse words within hearing of tender ears."

"Caroline attempts to read a book at the beach while Celeste and India plot to prevent her from having a moment to herself."

"India threatens to run away because her mother is the meanest mother in the world.  Caroline volunteers to drive her to the inner city and drop her off on the nearest street corner.  Hilarity ensues."

As a by-the-by, I seem to spend much of my SAHM tenure feeling like my head is going to explode.  Here is a typical parent-child exchange chez Pig:

Me:  India, do you want some toast?

India:  I don't know.

Me: It's a yes-or-no question, India, do you want some toast?

India:  I guess so (heavy sigh of weariness and despair).

Me:  India, if I make you this toast, are you going to eat it?

India:  YES, MOTHER!

I make toast.  Toast sits for fifteen minutes, untouched. 

Me: India, if you're not going to eat this toast, I'm going to throw it out.

India:  I don't want it!

Toast is summarily discarded.  Twenty minutes pass.

India:  Mommy, I'm hungry.  I want toast.

Me:  * head explodes *

Why does nothing like THAT ever happen on RHONJ?

Segue to Relevant and Meaningful Conclusion Coming in 3... 2... 1:

I got nothin'.  Gimme some love in the comments, folks, it's going to be a loooooong summer.

My Cup Runneth Over

Today is my last official teacher day and thus the first day of my vacay.  That's good.

You know what's better than the first day of vacay?  The first day of vacay when it's also the day of your housecleaner's fortnightly visit.

You know what's better than the first day of vacay in a clean house?  The first day of vacay in a clean EMPTY house, because your husband took the little one to pick up the big girl from Camp Nonni-Poppi.

You know what's better than the first day of vacay in a clean, empty house?  The first day of vacay in a clean empty house, followed by the SECOND day of vacay in a clean, empty house because they're not coming back 'til Saturday!

You know what's even better than the first and second days of vacay in a clean, empty house?  The first and second days of vacay in a clean, empty house UNINTERRUPTED by the curriculum work you had scheduled because the meeting fell through.

You know what's even more better (can something be more better?  you bet it can!) than the first and second days of vacay in a clean, empty house uninterrupted by meetings?  Two uninterrupted days in a clean, empty house with a novel you've been dying to read and haven't had time to do so since, um, last August!

You know what's even better than two uninterrupted days in a clean, empty house with an eagerly anticipated novel?  Two uninterrupted days in a clean, empty house with an eagerly anticipated novel AND most of a hand-packed quart of homemade chocolate ice cream left in the freezer.

Now if you'll excuse me, I plan to sit on the porch for an indeterminate length of time with my seltzer water and the last installment of Harry Potter.  I'll stop to have dinner.  Or maybe I'll just skip dinner and head straight for the ice cream.  'Cuz today feels like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one!