Thursday, May 05, 2011

Move over, Mozart

I don't know if I've blogged this before, but I often say that when I was pregnant, I knew I would think our cutie was the cutest baby ever, but I didn't know he would actually be the cutest baby ever.

When I say this, I say it as a joke, but I also totally mean it. My sweetie once tried to explain the joy of parenthood to a committedly childless coworker, and she dismissed his comments with, "Oh, you're just smitten."

Which, well...yes. That's the point.

Anyway, I haven't blogged much, and I don't want to turn this blog into Cute Moment of the Month, because I do know that our cutie is really the cutest only to us--I know this, even though I don't believe it--but I couldn't resist this one.

Our cutie has recently discovered butter. Oh, he's been eating toast with butter (even butter on both sides) for months, but on toast, the butter is melted. You can't see it, and anyway, I've always just called toast with butter "toast," so as far as he knows, toast is not toast if it's not soggy with melted butter.

But recently, I gave him bread, untoasted, with butter smeared on it.

To say he understood immediately the appeal that is butter would be an understatement. In fact, he ate all the butter off the piece of bread I gave him, handed it back to me, and demanded more. When I said, "Do you want more butter?" he nodded and said, "Buh!" Note: instant acquisition of new word.

I learned within a few minutes that the butter must be spread to the very edges of the bread, or he will hand me bare crusts for further application of butter. By the time he had consumed the first piece of bread (buttered twice) he was marching around clutching his buttered crusts and singing, I am not kidding, a Butter Song.

"Buh, buh, BUH! Buh, buh, BUH!"

His first original composition, and what better inspiration could there be? I am one proud momma.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Spring is for rodents

Back when we lived in Connecticut, when I was in high school, there was a church on the corner on the main road through town which had a lawn that sloped rather steeply down to the street. In the spring, the lawn was covered in crocuses. I didn't think that much of them at the time, but as I've gotten older, I remember that lawn and the beautiful early spring flowers, and I wish I could have crocuses like that. Especially here in Seattle, where it seems like dreary, dreary, wet, gray, dreary winter will go on forever.

Bulbs generally do well in our climate. An hour or two north of here, tulips are a huge industry, and in the spring you can drive up there to enjoy them--if you can stand the hordes of people doing the same. Even in the city, tulips and especially daffodils abound, and in the early days of spring, you might even spot some crocuses.

So, back in November, I planted 100 crocus bulbs along the edge of our lawn. I was very pleased with myself, since my gardening urge does not always extend to actually planting anything. I looked at my little strip of dirt and looked forward to crocuses in the spring.

I saw my first squirrel about 1/2 an hour later. I'm surprised it took that long, frankly. By the next day, there were holes all over the little strip, and half-eaten bulbs strewn around. I took a deep breath, and thought, "OK, 100 bulbs. Surely some of them will make it to spring?" I figure the squirrels took at least half of them, maybe as many as 75, by the end of the first week.

In January there was a warm spell, and some of the bulbs began to sprout. Little green shoots poked out of the ground. The squirrels were grateful for the help finding them. I counted another dozen dug up and gone.

Finally, a couple weeks ago, some more shoots, ones that managed to survive the squirrels' further depredations. I started to see two or three tiny buds. A smidge of purple peaked out.

Then it hailed. The smidge of purple turned to battered purple petals on the ground.

Finally, finally, yesterday, I got my single crocus. Yes, single. 100 bulbs, one flower:

The picture doesn't do justice to the beautiful deep purple. The sun was so bright yesterday, as if spring might come after all. I had to take pictures.

Good thing I did, because by this morning, a squirrel had eaten it.

Saturday, February 26, 2011


Last night my sweetie and I had a date night. After a movie, popcorn & soda (shared), dinner at a bar, and the babysitter, we spent $110. That's not what this post is about, but I'm kind of shocked, really. It was hardly a fancy night out.

The movie we saw was "The King's Speech", which we really enjoyed. We haven't been to see a movie in the theatre since "Julie & Julia," I think, so I'm glad it was a good one. It was weird to see Helena Bonham Carter not acting like a crazed freak. I hardly recognized her.

Anyway, maybe halfway through the movie, Bertie's older brother, the future King Edward VIII, shows up. I think, "Hmm, he looks familiar." After another scene or two, I realize he's Guy Pearce. I had a huge crush on Guy Pearce back when he was in "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert." If you never saw it or don't remember it, Google some pictures. He was a beautiful man. Beautiful.

He's still handsome, but my primary reaction to him in this movie was, "Good grief, he's now old enough to play Colin Firth's older brother??? How is this possible? How old am I????"

You see, in my mind, Colin Firth is older than me, and Guy Pearce is my age. Augh!

A quick check of IMDB this morning has relieved me somewhat: they're both older than me, but Colin Firth is the oldest. So there!