I hope you get your dreams

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song

You go ahead, let your hair down

Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams,

Just go ahead, let your hair down.


- Corine Bailey Rae

Fantastical creatures and grand plans

There's just something so intrinsically wonderful about Chinese New Year celebrations. The festivities, parades and lore just take all the hope for a bright future and wrap it up in foil and glitter.

I think the best part of it all is watching the dragon dancers say farewell to the year past and welcome another with such active excitement.

And then I thought ...

"Wouldn't it be cool if ...

"Maybe for next year ...

("I'd probably have to start now ...)

"I could get a bunch of kids together to make a costume ...

"And we could have a dragon parade of our own?"

Because really? Nothing promotes teamwork quite like a dozen or so kids covered in fabric trying to snake their way down a road.

Of course I'll probably forget all about it next year, but I thought making a design plan would make it seem possible:


So this is what I'm thinking we need:

* Two cardboard boxes - one larger and one smaller
* Lots of cereal boxes
* Faux fur scraps
* Some kind of plastic pipe
* A length of chicken wire
* About five yards of some red shiny fabric
* Paint (bright colors)
* Glue

And this is what I think we try to do with it all:

Deflated

What do you call the ice storm that lost its umph?

According to The Champ: "Pfffft."

Pimp my (home) office

This is the cleanest this room will ever be ...

So. Since I'm home ... hiding from the snow/ice/rain or whatever concoction of winter precipitation we're supposed to be getting today.

What say ye?

What color do I paint the walls?

... before i start climbing them that is.

Words, pictures and ideas that are bigger than any of us

She received an IlluStory for her birthday, which is the perfect gift for a kid who wants to write (and publish) her first book before she's forced to blow out even 10 candles on her cake ...

No.

Wait.

That was me ... (never mind).

Although she has told me she wants to be a writer, she hasn't revealed any timetable that's breathing down her neck.

Where was I?

IlluStory.

This is essentially a story writing kit that helps you outline and create a book that you send off to be printed and bound into a book of your own.

Amazing times, huh?

Anywhooo.

Ittybit unearths this creative gem from her pile of presents that she's slowly savoring and decides she'd like to make it a biography, which happens to be the first suggestion on the instruction sheet.

Being in the news business, I suggest that she might want to interview one of her grandparents and write her book based on those interviews.

For a second I had this flash ... She would ask all the questions people wish they'd asked but never got the chance ...

She shook her head. And that second ended.

Nope. She wanted to write her biography about Martin Luther King Jr.

I can't say I wasn't surprised ... I would have guessed she'd have chosen someone in pop culture - Justin Bieber or Taylor Swift - but I knew MLK Jr. had been a topic of study in preparation for the celebration of his birth in January and Black HIstory Month in February.

So I asked her how I could help.

"You can help me find interesting facts about him," she said pointing to the computer as she sharpened a pencil.

As I Googled, she came and sat on my lap to look at the screen.

"When was he born?"

"Where was he born?"

"Who were his parents?"

"Where did he go to school?"

"What's his most important accomplishment?"

After we'd finished collecting information to use in her book, she uncapped her markers and went to work drawing his likeness for the cover.

She asked me to write the words so they'd be neat, and got to work on designing the first page, a picture of a family in a living room - a mother holding an infant and a father looking down at the child from his seat next to them on the sofa.

It wasn't until after I'd convinced her two pages was enough for the first day's work and was rummaging through her book bag for homework that I found the stapled booklet of coloring papers she'd brought home from school: "He Had a Dream."

I brought it to her and held it up: "Hey ... maybe we could use this to research your biography."

She looked at me in horror, like I'd lost my mind.

"No! That book doesn't say anything about Martin Luther King other than his name in the beginning, it's all about people he brought together.

"He needs his own book."

My mother used to call me 'the scientist'

But, ah ... gravity.

The only thing I really know about it is ...

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Snuffleupagus

My son goes to the same preschool I attended as a tot.

I even lived in the apartment above the school as a young adult, nearly fresh out of college.

I remember the first winter I lived there I picked up every virus left behind on the front doorknob.

I think my son must be a lot like me.

He's gotten about 14 colds this winter. ... One for every day at school.

Lights out

I keep thinking I should bundle up and go outside one of these nights.

As the kids go off to the Land of Nodd, one or the other has trouble finding the way.

Usually it's The Champ, whose Santa-supplied rechargeable flashlight has given him a stage-effects-like power over the night sky.

From my room I see its light dancing across the hall with seizure-inducing speed.

I imagine the effects from the outside are just as dazzling.

Snowmenly

From the snow day archives, courtesy of Lori AKA "The Other Mommy"

WHAT YOU'LL NEED

*The cardboard tubes of toilet paper or paper towel rolls
*White paper
*Colored construction paper
*Crayons or markers
*Egg carton
*Glue
*Stuff to affix with glue (such as ribbon, buttons or sequins

WHAT YOU DO
*Cut white paper to fit length of cardboard roll and glue
*Cut out a cup from the egg container and glue to a construction paper "brim"
*Decorate as desired.

Polar opposites

I remember the hill I used to sled as a child.

It was behind the grade school I attended, within walking distance of my house.

I remember one of the sleds we used to own, a silver saucer, and wanting to use it instead of the new red plastic toboggan.

I couldn't tell you why.

I don't really remember the act of sledding itself ... other than cold air numbing my face and the sensation of speed. Trudging back up the hill must have been effortless, because I don't have any recollection of it either.

You sled ... you run ... you wait your turn ... you sled again. That's what I remember.
That and laughing about tipping over or turning around or crashing into the kid who had left the top before me.

I certainly don't remember being told how to steer ... or even knowing there was a need to do so.

It wasn't until I had children of my own to maim in polar collisions did the question even enter my radar.

Honestly ... just seconds before I was hurtling myself and my second born down a steep hill.

"OK ... Try to steer to the right after that first turn," my husband said as I was about to let go.

"Don't you just point yourself in a direction clear of trees and traffic and just ... well, Go?"

My husband looks at me with that special look ... that, lets face it, doesn't really make anyone feel very special.

"Really?! Didn't we already cover this?"

It wasn't until after I'd grown up and my own children reached the age of wanting to plummet down hills and ill-advised speeds that I even thought "there might be a wrong way to do this."

And even then ... time has a way of erasing information I don't use regularly.

"Listen ... If you are heading for a tree to the left put your right foot out to turn away from it."

"I suppose I should have known, opposites attract."

Glancing ...

He thought he'd accidentally dropped a sweater in the toilet.

Mother Superior

An excerpt on Yale professor Amy Chua's new memoir "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," appeared in The Wall Street Journal this month sparking national debate on so-called eastern and western parenting styles and how they may be shaping the future generation.

Chua offered herself as a lightning rod, portraying supermom-like will to mold her children into top-rate prodigies.

Among the topics her way brought up included abuse, achievement, defining success, self esteem, psychological scars, overall happiness and adult relationships with overbearing parents.

I especially loved David Brooks' answer to Chua's self-aggrandizing (and what I thought at first was tongue and cheek satire) essay. He called her a "wimp," saying that while she strong-armed her children into mastering the hard stuff she was protecting them from failing at the softer, more useful stuff that binds us as a society. You know ... like empathy.

It all makes for interesting debate, for sure. However, neither has a corner on The Best Way To Raise ChildrenTM market. Success in one area doesn't necessarily carry over into all other areas. You can be strict or you can be lax and neither will ensure your kids are successful at the business of life.

He blamed the cat

So I asked "Are you sure? Did you smell her breath for butter?"

And he said: "No, I looked on the counter for mouse droppings."

X marks ...

... the things I didn't buy.

What are your dreams?

I have a dream that our children will one day live in a world that has conquered its fear of others. That they will make a world that finds its strength in peace and not in war.

I dream that one day the struggle they face will be to do more for each other, not more for themselves. That they can be compassionate without being compensated.

I have a dream that when they discuss health care it won't be long waits that worry them, but whether or not the best of care is provided to everyone.

I dream that one day my children will measure their success is how well they've cared for others not in money or fame.

I have a dream that they will know equality by accepting and respecting that it is our differences that make us remarkable.

I have a dream that they will not follow in our footsteps, but that will fix our mistakes.

Remote control

I mean, really?

Isn't there some kind of prophylactic we can add to the plastic to keep them from multiplying?

How do you control your remotes?

We need to believe

I find it interesting that people who complain about the national conversation that has erupted after the tragic events in Tucson on Jan. 8 are essentially saying there’s nothing to be done, move on. They're pointing fingers at pointing fingers.

I do not believe we are incapable of change. Sea changes can happen in the same instant a life is snuffed out. They can happen when we open our eyes and decide we are tired of the same story always told.

There are so many things we can’t control, it’s true. But there is also so much we can do.

We can’t control the weather … but we can stop adding to its fury.

We can’t control illness … but we can try and mitigate its effects.

We can’t stop bullets as they leave the end of a gun … but we certainly can stop selling them to people for the sport of killing other people.

We can choose differently.

According to the Center for Disease Control, American children are more at risk from firearms than the children of any other industrialized nation. In one year, firearms killed no children in Japan, 19 in Great Britain, 57 in Germany, 109 in France, 153 in Canada, and 5,285 in the United States.

Since 2000, 32 infants and toddlers have died in drop-side cribs, and the government bans them entirely. Seventy-five children are shot every day in this country and the government, thanks to a powerful gun lobby, shrugs its shoulders.

I am a mother. I am a citizen. I am a voter. I want change.

Snow day

The phone rings at 6 a.m.

No school.

My children are still in their beds, unaware that the day ahead is theirs to play with as as they wish.

The surprise is not mine. The seed for this day was planted in the forecasts. The talk of teachers.

I drive to work, nearly alone on the roads, missing the snow angels they will make and the snow forts they will build.

Childish things, perhaps, and still the road ahead seems so empty ... as if I'm on of the few who missed a gift that fell from the sky overnight.

The most cliched wish of all time

I really wish there was a spell that could harmlessly keep them little forever.

What do you wish?

Just like them

He wanted to go with the "ofer kids."

"I just like them," he told me, despite having shorter skis.

And so we went. ... I figured we'd trail along behind ... but he was determined to keep up.

And so we did.

What would you like for breakfast?

"I don't want breface!"

"You have to have breakfast ... so-what'll-it-be?"

"... I don't want breface! ... I don't want Sheerios! I don't want Danola! I DON'T WANT NUFFING!"

"How about waffles?"

"OK."

Winter Doldrums introduces Natural Instincts to Technological Advancement

She doesn't need to get up.



Or even move quickly.

Perfect!

I'm not listening, I'm not listening

Words, words, words, words, words.

If someone tells me they think I'm doing a good job I tend to give them a glare-y eyeball and half-lip sneer. A part of my soul believes any praise foisted upon me from other humans comes from a place of deep surprise and low expectations.

Call me crazy. I promise I won't hold that against you.

I suppose this is why I had such a strong reaction to Liz's blog post about all the things you can't say to mothers, specifically the ones who work outside of the home.

There is nothing we can say to each other that doesn't risk the rolling of eyes or worse - the harboring of resentment.

You can't ask us what we do? Or if we worry about our kids? You can't say anything that could be considered even remotely critical of our parenting abilities ... such as wondering if we've chosen to work ... or has work been forced upon us. You can't even say anything about yourself in a proud manner, lest becomes an insult. Since, you know, we do things differently in our house.

There's always some knucklehead telling us someone else is raising our children. As if it's the worst possible thing in the world (I'm waving at you, iVillage!).

Of course that's offset by the neanderthals wondering why you, who stay at home, bothered to seek higher education. You're just wasting the tenured talents of others.

There's always some grandmotherly figure lurking out in the world telling you your kids need more protein or less candy or fewer toys.

Some stranger on the street is bound to question how you let your kid dress or how late you are out with them on a Wednesday night.

We might agree that most folks -- busy-bodies included -- don't mean to offend. But we can't help ourselves. We get offended. We keep licking at the wound and seeking solidarity.

We believe that if we talk about it. If we make the world aware of all the hurts they hurl at us with their ill-considered, off the cuff ideas (that have nothing to do with our circumstances and weren't solicited in the first place) the world would be a better place.

We could finally end the mommy war we keep fighting in our heads.

Until someone dares to ask you what you do ... as if any ONE thing you DO should define you ... and it all starts all over again.

We're all crazy.

I hope you won't hold it against me for saying so.

If I keep telling myself ...

there are infinitely possibilities, maybe I'll believe.

We celebrated the New Year yesterday

I celebrated the end of my 365 Days project today ...

by not taking a picture.

Not exactly 'Home Alone' but close enough ...

The Jump and Roll was jumping and rolling. Kids heading in every direction. The smaller of my two had disappeared into the climbing structure and the biggun wanted me to help her glide on her rented wheels.

I was talking to some other mothers when the music faded out and the microphone cut in. ...

"Would SIOBHAN please come to the ticket counter. Again. SIOBHAN please come to the ticket counter."

I stood there, perplexed. For some reason my mind focused on the word AGAIN.

"That can't be me," I said and looked toward my wallet on the table. Didn't lose anything with my name on it. And they stressed 'again.' Maybe they're looking for someone they'd already summoned before."

"Really?" my friend laughed. "You think there could possibly be another Siobhan here? The name has gotten that popular?"

She was right. How many of us could there be? I started to worry. Maybe there was an accident and Jed couldn't get through on the cell phone ..."

I started walking faster toward the place where we entered, passing the place I was supposed to appear (a place I would have named the "PRIZE BOOTH" not "TICKET COUNTER" if I were in charge of naming areas in a large indoor playground).

Of course. ... It's probably a good thing I'm not in charge of too many children. ...

A woman stopped me and asked if I was "Siobhan" before I noticed the boy in her arms was my son.

I held out my arms, feeling horrible.

"He couldn't find you and was crying," the woman said. "He knew your name, but wouldn't tell me his."

I'm not sure which was worse ... that I had not noticed he was missing or that I had no idea he could pronounce my name so clearly.

Word

Welp, I'll tell you what ... I'm never going to think of TYPEFACE the same way again.

We really do mean 'Happy Holidays'

Her classroom holiday party - THE event of the season - was today and the not-ready-for-daytime family was invited.

Hair? Uncombed. *Check*

Faces? Unwashed. *Yes* And *Yes*

Fancy clothes? What? We just did laundry the other day. Our comfy clothes are perfectly presentable. There's no need to get out the ol' prom dress. Marking that as an *Uh-huh*

What about holiday colors? Orange and black ARE holiday colors. What planet do you call home, anyway? *Holiday-Schmoliday*

Flying off the shelf ...

Let's hope the eight tiny reindeer can keep their roof-clattering paws hooves off.

Updates and downgrades

My camera has decided it needs a break.

Its protests come in the form of noise, focus problems and exposure maladies.

It's almost like the surprise of film without the happy results.

More than slightly disappointing.

There's only a few days left before I conclude my 365 project ...

And I don't suppose Santa will be hitting up the Nikon elves on my behalf this Christmas, but there may be enough for a couple of rolls of film and brief return to the analog days.

I've been missing film almost as much as I've been missing life before Internets.

Really.

It's true.

Last weekend I turned off the phone. Barely touched the computer. And the world didn't spin off its axis. It was a relief, really.

There's something about imposing goals (on something you like to do) and trying to meet them (in a to-the-letter sort of way) ... It sucks the joy right out of it.

So. ...

I'll finish the project, but I'll likely be phoning it in.

Holy craftacular, Batman!

So ...

You know how The Champ is a fan of bats, right?

*Long, meandering, beside-the-point story alert*

Well, we were out late one night ... well past bedtime ... for a holiday event that almost ensures the kids will fall asleep in the car on the way home and you'll have to carry them up to their beds ...

and hope their teeth won't disintegrate from a night without dentifrice.

*Check. Check. Check ... and Check.*

Of course, Jed is already snoring by the time I'm done making sure the kids are tucked in ... I think I'll go downstairs and surf the interwebs for a while.

... also, I seem to recall feeding time for the dog and cat has been overlooked.

So I head downstairs ... Stopping dead in my tracks at the fourth-step from the bottom.

Because in the living room, FLYING AT ME, is a bat.

Now, I know bats are pretty small and harmless when they're all folded up and hanging upside down in a bat lair, cleverly cut into the side of a mountain by some Hollywood film crew ...

In my house. Where my bed and computer are. The thing was a menacing giant.

Now, I did what any self-respecting, bat-loving, can-do-anything woman would do in a situation like this: I crouched as low to the floor as humanly possible, crawled back up the stairs, closed the doors to the kids' rooms and woke my husband from a sound sleep.

"There's a bat in the house."

"I know. You're parents gave it to him last summer. It came with a ball and glove."

"No. The winged creature kind."

He woke up, went downstairs and commenced to wonder what he was going to do about this predicament. ...

While I sat at the top of the stairs and waited. ...

I heard the opening and closing of doors as he went on a room-to-room check.

"Did he come back your way?"

"Nope. Nothing up here but us chickens."

He was removing picture frames from the walls and banging sheet rock. He went to the Christmas tree and gave it a shake. Nothing.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a muffled curse.

"B@$7&%#"

"Did you find him?"

"He went out the door. He's gone now."

"How do you know it's a him?"

"Bad sonar, but won't ask for directions."


*****


OK ... So that's pretty much where the inspiration for this week's craftacular project comes from ... that and the need to have a simple handmade thing-a-ma-jig to put under the tree for the kidlets.

So I put the idea "soft and comfy pillow" together with "winged, rat-like harbinger of terror."

I predict sweet dreams!

WHAT YOU NEED

* A 9' circular pillow form or polyfill.
* Brown fur-like fabric (I cut two 10-inch circles).
* 1/2 yard of Black pleather material (leftover from the bat costume).
* A few triangles of white craft felt.
* A black, fleece remnant (cut into two triangles for ears, and a little mushroom for nose).
* Saftey eyes.
* A 4" piece of ribbon.

UNNECESSARY BUT HELPFUL

* A sewing machine

NOT HELPFUL BUT INSPIRATIONAL

* A live model

WHAT YOU DO

CUT OUT ALL YOUR PIECES

* Cut two circles of brown fabric for the body.

* Cut two bat wings out of pleather. Flip over and use them to cut two more.
make them the same length as the body.

* Cut two, large triangles out of fleece and fold into smaller triangles.

* Cut mushroom shape out of fleece for nose; and cut triangles out of white felt.

ASSEMBLE THE PARTS

* Cut tiny slits for eyes in the front side of the body fabric and insert safety eyes; secure the backs. Next sew on nose and teeth. I sewed around the entire nose, but secured the teeth only at the top.

* Flip wings so the outsides face in, and pin them together. Sewing around three sides of each wing. Turn right-side out through the end opening. Use a pencil to poke any tight spots out.

* Take the ear triagles and sew around the edge, leaving room to turn it right side out.

* Being careful to put the ears at the top of the face, turn the body circles right side in and sandwich the fabric over the wings, Ears and ribbon loop (also pointing inward). Pin around the outside.

* Sew around the whole thing, making sure to secure the appendages and leave enough room to insert the stuffing or pillow form.

* Turn right side out.

* Insert stuffing or pillow form.

* Close up the opening.


AND THERE IT IS ...

A flightless rodent you're kids CAN cuddle.



*In case you're wondering ... I put the ribbon loop at the bottom so he can hang upsidedown when he's taking a nap.

I know there are signs everywhere ...

I just wish mine weren't directing me into traffic.

Planets align ... for only two hours

Just because you want a snow day ...

And you attend a school that is historically known to close on the mere whiff of flakes ...



Doesn't mean the planets will align for more than a two-hour delay.

Sorry, Charlie.

More than it seems

Dear Ittybit,

I know I should feel embarrassed by the excess.

More than two dozen people invited to a two-hour birthday party.

At Christmas time, no less.

But I don't feel embarrassed.

The much reviled gift bag is in full production mode at our house.

I understand the hatred for such things. Before I was a child, I've come to understand, the party WAS the present.

When I was growing up a few kids would go home with prizes, which was probably how all this excess was born. Everyone, as they start having children of their own, remembers feeling like a loser as they left party after party empty handed.

And here we are - adults, a whole lifetime later - trying to compensate for all the mild disappointments with small bag of trinkets to be handed out to the children we sugared up and are sending home with their parents.

We rent places and spaces, trying to create memories that will last until next year when we'll try to top ourselves.

It sounds so much more of an indictment of modern life that it seems. "It's only money" is the polar opposite of "it's such a waste." Schools of thought that can't meet in the middle and play nice.

It's social/economic position vs. social/economic position: The haves vs. the have nots.

Either way, all that angst and anticipation gets channeled into a plastic and paper assembly line. And things that don't really matter at all -- things that will undoubtedly wind up at the bottom of a drawer -- end up meaning more than they should.

... Except that they do, somehow, matter in the moment we do them. In the minutes we spend planning, shopping and producing we are working together. We are sharing a moment.

I had begun to think it didn't matter that it doesn't matter.

But I know it does matter.

The thing we lose by being so caught up in the details is the big picture; this celebration birth and belonging and life gets lost in the minutia of the minute.

More than seven years ago, when I sat on an examining table in a paper robe listening to the doctor telling me I would have a Christmas baby ... I felt sorry for her.

I thought she would forgotten in the hoopla that is the holidays.

I had no way of understanding what a gift I would get that Christmas when I met her. I didn't have the forethought, and still don't, to see how Christmas would be forever changed by you.

Each year brings a new revelation.

So as we ready for the day you will turn seven, I want to tell you to just enjoy this moment for all that it is and all it could be.

And I'll try to do the same.

Love and just-about-birthday kisses,

Mommy

Got cookies?

The first time I earnestly made cookies for a "Cookie Party" (somewhere in the neighborhood of six or 18 thousand dozens) I went into labor a day before the party and the butter shortbreads, hand dipped in dark chocolate, were parceled out to the nursing staff on the maternity ward.

That was about seven years ago ...

This year we attended the same party and Jed took over the production, making his grandma's recipe bourbon balls.

(Jed, if you're reading, I did NOT spit mine out in the trash ... that was someone else. I pinky swear.)

Thing is, I kinda wish there were more of these kinds of parties in my holiday itinerary. I could eat dinners made of cookies from now until Christmas, no problem.

So, with that in mind, I thought I'd host a virtual cookie exchange here. I'd share a recipe with you in hopes you'll share one with me.

Of course I didn't really have a recipe ... so chances are I won't be able to recreate them ...

(Aren't you glad you come here?)

Anyhow ... without further spoilage, I give you ...


ISLAND COOKIES

PREHEAT oven to 350 degrees

TOSS the following ingredients into a mixing bowl:
* Two cups or so of finely ground oatmeal
* A few shakes of enriched white flour (maybe a 3/4 of a cup) or almond flour
* About two tablespoons of butter, softened
* About two tablespoons of canola oil
* Half a box of dark brown sugar
* About half a cup of granulated sugar
* Two pours of vanilla extract
* A pinch of salt
* A spoon-tip of baking soda (couldn't find the baking powder but I would have put in an equal amount of that).

BLEND
For a while.

THEN ADD IN
About a cup of chocolate chunks
3/4 of a bag of shredded coconut
three dried pineapple rings, chopped

PLACE
Heaping teaspoons of batter on a parchment lined baking sheet)
Bake for 10 minutes.

*I know they don't look like much, but they taste so good.

Snow kidding

While his handwriting would indicate he missed his calling as a doctor, his footwriting is completely legible.

I'm kind of glad I didn't see this ...

as I was walking IN to the dentist's office.

Seeing it on the way out was bad enough.

*shudders*

Secret's in the tummy ... (not the wrist)

I'm thinking this fairly adequately sums up how three-year-olds make gingerbread houses.

Fairly standard operation whether you are one, two or ... you know ... older.

It's practically a law of nature ...

Give a kid a a gift, and they'll play with the box.



So, without further explanation: I present ROCKET BOX.



WHAT YOU'll NEED


* The bottle separators from a LARGE case of wine
* Scissors
* Hot melt glue gun

MAY BE NICE ... BUT NOT NECESSARY

* Paint
* Glitter
* Markers

TOTALLY A SPLURGE

* The wine that came in the box.



WHAT YOU DO



* Take the inserts out of the box.
* Cut away one section of cardboard from a four-section piece.
* Cut the top of the remaining tabs into triangles.
* Fold so that you have a square box and pointed end.
* Glue the edges in place creating a box and nosecone.
* Cut another triangular piece and glue into the nosecone.
* Take the fourth section of cardboard and glue it into the bottom of the rocket, a section will extend past the box. Allow enough extra space so that it "catches" under the rocket's nosecone.
* Score the bottom piece of cardboard and fold it upward to make a flap.
* Add as many floors (compartments) to the rocket as will fit.
* Cut more triangles and glue to exterior ... these can be handles.
* Decorate or leave plain



* Spend the next several hours in test-flight operations.

Also ...



Say 'Thanks' to the engineer. He likes to be appreciated.

What time is it?

*

'Tis

the Season

for holiday excess ...

Which ... in my little corner

of the universe means purchasing

coffee cups I only need because my last

(and most favorite) one, which was to be put in

the car's cup holder, went flying off the car's roof

and broke into a bazillion pieces as I drove away from

the place where my bed and coffee maker reside.

No Matter.

It's that

time again ...

It's time for the slinging of holiday swag!



The new Holiday Masthead Mug is 10 (or 12, who knows) ounces of holiday joy, which I perennially have trouble giving away ... even with the addition last year of homemade candy. (But I'm not bitter.)

And new this year, we bring you Holiday Masthead Stacking Mugs ...



With four of us around it's a party!

Yeah. I know ... whatev ...


Finally ... and having nothing (and everything) to do with the holiday season of excess and guilt, I present the ultimate in passive aggressive travel drinkware:


I'm calling it the "Just Say No" travel mug.

These, and much, much more, are available for purchase at egregious prices at Cafe Press.



**And ... as per custom ... If you'd like a mug but don't want to shell out mucho dinero, just fill my email box with love. I'll pick one reader/commenter at random and you'll get a mug filled with homemade toffee. You know ... whenever I get a chance to make it.