tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34761071827523924922024-02-22T15:27:53.640-06:00OverThinkerYou've got another think coming.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-89634803308762016592012-09-28T15:20:00.000-05:002012-09-28T15:21:06.937-05:00Charities are so bossy<div style="text-align: left;">
LIVE STRONG</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
LIVE UNITED</div>
<br />
Quit telling me how to live.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-58369752773177548212011-09-13T15:20:00.000-05:002012-09-28T15:21:56.430-05:00Stripper names need not apply<div>
<div>
Sam and I decided we should probably start compiling a list of baby names for our next addition - a girl this time. Last night we solicited name suggestions from our two boys. I'll admit I expected at least a little bit of consideration for something as momentous as what their little sister will be called.</div>
<br />
<div>
Paolo's contribution: Mama Jr.</div>
<div>
Luca's contribution: Yo Gabba Gabba</div>
<br />
<div>
Considering that Sam's number-one pick is Summer, its' safe to say I'll be picking this name, too.</div>
</div>
Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-12084042172319781072011-03-04T15:23:00.004-06:002011-03-04T15:52:04.965-06:00Mama's Little ComedianAs I dropped off Luca this morning, I reminded him to grab his Gogurt as he got out of the car.<br /><br />He replied, quite seriously, "Mama, it's not Gogurt, it's yogurt."<br /><br />Trying to make him smile I asked, "Are you sure? Maybe it's wo-gurt."<br /><br />"No, Mama. That's only when I drop it."<br /><br />Ba-dum-bum ching!Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-4045928945952525102010-10-28T14:28:00.004-05:002010-10-28T14:39:36.245-05:00Eating dirt in the South<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin26y8q3TFXE8jhKavfOjoUvxSGsnrMTZ5IG_Zf4grHQvPtT-GOZrLXlfRX4AEY3cwxndRtHMLFsSmKeRyEX5L34otQ7hp7TOUcCfwo1eIdmr17uyeQUQNTixb8eRSnZ4RSTJnUStPBBI/s1600/dpudv.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533182151226532978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin26y8q3TFXE8jhKavfOjoUvxSGsnrMTZ5IG_Zf4grHQvPtT-GOZrLXlfRX4AEY3cwxndRtHMLFsSmKeRyEX5L34otQ7hp7TOUcCfwo1eIdmr17uyeQUQNTixb8eRSnZ4RSTJnUStPBBI/s320/dpudv.jpg" /></a>I made edible grass last night using shredded coconut and green food coloring. It was for Paolo’s class project; they are studying soils. In a clear cup they are making dirt layers out of two kinds of chocolate pudding, Oreo cookie crumbs, brown sugar, including gummy worms and, of course, green grass on top.<br />Some days, I would like to trade jobs with my seven-year-old.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-34242696433113121872010-07-01T12:58:00.000-05:002010-07-04T12:29:14.258-05:00Summer Runs On and OnYou are belatedly on notice that school is out. Last summer this was a bad thing, as we socked Paolo away into a crappy daycare that closed halfway through the summer, and then begged our way into a decent summer program that he didn't enjoy because all the kids had made friends already, and I suspect he spent much of the day sitting in the corner, not to mention it was located allllllll the way across town, which took even longer to drive than it takes to read this sentence. This year things are going much better due to some better parental planning on our parts, and a better attitude on Paolo's part. <br /><br />Speaking of Paolo's flaws (and I can admit he has flaws, even though Sam says I'm so protective of my children that if they killed someone, I'd help them hide the body, which is completely untrue, because they always find the body, so you have to make it look like an accident), he had a rough year with his first-grade teacher, due in part to his lack of focus. The other part of the year's difficulty was due to his teacher being a mean, old hag. What follows is an example of the efforts I made to impress upon Paolo the importance of concentrating:<br /><blockquote>Paolo, your teacher says you were not paying attention in class today. You didn't get your work done, and you had to make it up at recess.<br /><br />[Deep sigh] Yeah.<br /><br />Did you like doing work when all the other kids were playing?<br /><br />No.<br /><br />So next time your teacher tells you to do your work or you'll have to miss recess, you'll remember what that felt like, right?<br /><br />[Pause] Um ... yeah.<br /><br />Do you have any idea what I just said?<br /><br />Yes!<br /><br />....<br /><br />No! [explodes with laughter] No, Mama, I have no idea what you just said.</blockquote><br />Shortly thereafter, I gave up.<br /><br />Apologies for the egregious run-on sentences today. I don't know what came over me, unless I'm always this way and don't even realize it. Maybe my endless droning is why Paolo has the attention span of a goldfish. Perhaps the poor kid shuts down out of self-preservation, because if he truly listened to every word I said, his frontal lobes would tie themselves into knots.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-60367346114478129112010-06-28T11:34:00.005-05:002010-06-28T12:57:59.617-05:00What happened to Italy?I've been hearing this a lot lately, and it's a fair question. Italy entered this World Cup as reigning champions and left it in the first round. So what happened to Italy? There is an army of balding men wearing fat ties and slick glasses in RAI studios right now (over)analyzing this very matter, but I will give you my opinion. Since you asked. <br /><br />The coach was the wrong choice, and he didn’t select or field the right players. To further devastate matters, our best chances at holding it together in spite of the deficit - Buffon and Pirlo - were injured and unable to play all but a few minutes of the first three matches. On the field Italy were limp, lifeless; they played without organization or heart. Except for the dying minutes of the third game against Slovakia, when Pirlo controlled with his calm, unerring passes, Quagliarella exploded with his bloodlust for goal, and Italy came alive. That was actually the hardest part of the tournament to watch, even compared to the embarrassing tie with New Zealand (who doesn't even have a professional soccer league). I was a ball of emotions: furious that Italy had waited so long to turn it on, overjoyed to see them play with heart and fire, and miserable to know the effort was wasted. The hole they'd dug themselves was too deep to climb out of. <br /><br />Of course I'm ashamed that my team didn't make it out of group play. It's gutting to fall so far so fast, especially when naysayers use it to gripe that Italy didn't really deserve to win in 2006. Still, I believe the story couldn't have ended any other way. This team was not going to win the World Cup again, and the loss only gets more painful as the team advances. I'm almost glad Italy put it to bed so quickly. As a fan, I prefer to know right from the start that there is no hope.<br /><br />So now what? Now the fans of mighty Italy lick our wounds and we wait. We change our computer background from the World Cup trophy because it isn't ours anymore, and we watch the reconstruction of the Azzurri. We cheer and we grieve, we praise and we curse, we beg and we boast, we demand and we despair, and we wait for the fratelli d'Italia to rise again.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-91934173169100855352010-06-03T15:34:00.007-05:002010-06-03T15:53:10.988-05:00My HeroPicture it: Downtown Fayetteville, a hot Sunday afternoon. The kiddie race is about to start in the street at the annual Joe Martin Stage Race. The parking lot is roped off for vendor tents and the children’s play zone. My boys were not racing, as one is too young and one hates bikes, so they had the inflatable bounce house all to themselves. Paolo and Luca were hurling themselves around for all they were worth, while I watched at the entrance, cheering them on. Suddenly, I heard something odd: not a noise, but a LACK of noise. Before it dawned on me that the air blower hooked up to the four gigantic inflatables had cut out, the back columns of the bounce house collapsed. Paolo and Luca froze and stared at me in horror as the roof caved in on them. GET OUT, I yelled, BOYS, GET OUT, HURRY. Paolo was closer and managed to army-crawl his way to the entrance, but Luca was no match for the heavy canvas. I watched the tarp come down on him, covering his body until just his tiny hand was visible reaching out for rescue. I grabbed Paolo before he slipped out to safety. PAOLO, YOU’VE GOT TO GO BACK FOR YOUR BROTHER! With no hesitation, Paolo dived back in, grabbed Luca’s hand and pulled him free. I helped them both out onto the pavement, and we stood huddled together, staring in wonder at the puddle of canvas at our feet. A race coordinator sprinted over in full panic and asked, “Is there anyone in there?!” Hugging my boys tighter, I replied, “Not anymore.”<br /><br />The rest of the day, that brush with disaster was top of Paolo’s mind. He didn’t brag about his own escape, but about how he had saved his brother. He was a hero now, actually, a superhero. If it hadn’t been for him, Luca would have been buried forever. "Just think," Paolo went on, "if I had never been born and Luca was your only son, he never would have gotten out." After assuring Paolo that his bravery was truly astonishing, I reminded him gently that I had been standing RIGHT THERE and would have helped Luca out if we’d been alone. And yet, I know how siblings work. Ten years from now, Paolo will probably still be reminding Luca, “You know, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here.”<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 245px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478651945175524994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYXrnTOuvrvHSuBc8AKn2AXGSvWu4Nxw_NpgA21OXvmB9rYuYvgVW62NjEYPHM74o5q18VBWo7yYMg2zK9drcvPpUVKS4RiMbmpwcRigfMucasXHa2uZdgXfTIgEBRYXS4fTOXqvpW0k/s320/MC900433191%5B1%5D.jpg" />Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-71385621147822662102010-04-14T22:43:00.010-05:002010-04-14T23:28:16.703-05:00Six Flags Over CrazyAs I wrote yesterday, I actually enjoy Texas drivers. Texans drive fast, really fast, no matter how many cars are clogging the roads. When you combine dense traffic, breakneck speed and an out-of-towner driving a less-than-nimble minivan, the very last thing I need to deal with is stupid street names. To get to my hotel, I take <em>Six Flags Drive</em> to <em>Road to Six Flags Street</em>. No, wait. <em>Road to Six Flags</em> then <em>Six Flags</em>, right? Maybe. These roads border the Six Flags over Texas park on two sides, but then one shoots off West and one goes South, so you really don't want to get them mixed up. Thankfully, Six Flags itself is a brilliant landmark.<br /><br /><div align="justify">Another orienting landmark is the International Bowling Museum an<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisAP3sX0RA4sa_bxu6vXkzIGk2xN2YwliICPmmrGPWTE-lCVhjfelxWeW0h-xRodPaq-iQaK3w5t56mGCN2NJLho_Sii0Xu0mwi6zagPmdr2jRwejUfiXZ5YKW_3yWrvwmFT9zTwZIrOo/s1600/ibcPin.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 149px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 151px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460213786108916274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisAP3sX0RA4sa_bxu6vXkzIGk2xN2YwliICPmmrGPWTE-lCVhjfelxWeW0h-xRodPaq-iQaK3w5t56mGCN2NJLho_Sii0Xu0mwi6zagPmdr2jRwejUfiXZ5YKW_3yWrvwmFT9zTwZIrOo/s200/ibcPin.jpg" /></a>d Hall of Fame's monumental bowling pin with rotating stripes. If I had not screwed up each and every time I have left the hotel, I would never have known there was such an institution. As luck would have it, I've passed it three times. I confess to feeling a bit like Clark Griswold as I take wrong turn after wrong turn only to be confronted yet again by skyscraping roller coasters. Look kids! Six Flags! International Bowling Museum!</div><br />In the same general where-is-the-damn-hotel locale are two enormous stadiums. Perchance there are some important sporting teams in the area? If you are coming in for a game, enjoy guessing whether you want Exit 28B / Ballpark in Arlington or Exit 29 / Ballpark Way. Also, be warned that while <em>Ballpark Way</em> will get you to Rangers Ballpark, <em>Stadium Drive</em> does not actually go to Cowboys Stadium.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-90449095776908134232010-04-13T21:15:00.008-05:002010-04-13T22:46:47.087-05:00BulletproofI'm sitting in a hotel room in Arlington, Texas, by a window overlooking a closed amusement park. It took six hours to drive here today, and at the last minute, I veered from my directions skirting Dallas and instead drove right through its heart. Dallas is notorious for its heavy, mad traffic and jumbled, confusing exchanges, and I wanted to prove I could still handle it. I never used to blink at racing along in fast traffic on major city roads, and I wanted to feel like the person I was before I got so damn old and responsible and soft. Keeping pace with the high speeds, navigating fearlessly, slipping into the groove of the commuter rush: it was euphoric.<br /><br />That was my life almost ten years ago, tearing down the highways around the Bay Area, free, bold, answering to no one. The person I was then didn't make meal plans and to-do lists. She had all the time in the world, and her choice of how to spend it.<br /><br />Just as I was reveling in my invincibility, a song came on the radio that made me miss my boys. It wasn't a sweet, childish song, of course; they have their dad to inform their musical taste. It was Bulletproof by La Roux. Paolo knows every word, knows the song well enough to make up alternate goofy lyrics, and Luca belts out the chorus. Bulletproof, hah! At this point in my life, I couldn't be more vulnerable. I no longer exist in exclusivity; my husband and children are part of me. I am saddled with demands, stretched thin, and chained tight, because I am loved. I do not long for the days when no one waited to hear I had arrived safely.<br /><br />When I'm away from home, sitting in an empty hotel room, she's so close to me, the person I was. Sometimes I like to check in with her, to step back into the stream of a faster, more reckless life, to feel young and unencumbered, but these are moments of nostalgia, not regret. Living without a net or an anchor is no way to spend your whole life, and I knew that ten years ago with the sunroof open, music screaming, going 80 down the highway.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-52804611613941892292010-02-25T13:31:00.009-06:002010-02-25T14:18:41.394-06:00Book Recommendations: Novels of the Romantic Poets and the Bronte SistersThe last two books I read were really enjoyable, both historical fiction accounts of famous authors.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 120px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442267881445550626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5rll7YFqoVFkvke-QgkW6wHSJvuNxS-0eVSlt76XtdDgkTSQ2I7QzCBbw1QWb00yo0w7oNDClILa4xCKTlHrmXx5oX_BnHPq5FPkiT1uhdC7VJ_1cw_F8UJ9ToAs-mmm6byUSqJHfqzo/s320/passion.bmp" /> <div>I first suspected Jude Morgan's <em>Passion: A Novel of the Romatic Poets</em> would be silly, poorly written or melodramatic - probably all three. The cover does not inspire confidence. I was pleasantly surprised to find such a strong, well researched novel, with vivid characters and amazing storytelling. If you have any interest in Percy Bysshe Shelly, John Keats or Lord Byron, here is a novel about the women who loved them. </div><div></div><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 120px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442269607702463026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-x5JNGQtTk9sC5dq5HBT6eK2j71GAIib5r4fIHYlN7JgubJZa2yxo97uvA3gvoCwlH37jbxG4ET_cMcuQOqknv0PTTqh3EMqLpsGaWwdeQrjP7aRWR-8B9brGaGfgBPYNu4lKpJsJAs/s320/ghost.bmp" /> <div>Following close on <em>Passion</em>'s historical heels is <em>Emily's Ghost: A Novel of the Bronte Sisters</em>, by Denise Giardina. While I had a hard time liking the characters, I appreciated that the author was not trying to make me like them. I also enjoyed the introduction by Giardina of subplots I did not anticipate, such as mill worker rebellion. I can't really say how much of a behind-the-Bronte-novels peek this is. I would have to read biographies of the Brontes in order to know what is real and imagined. I half don't want to know because Emily's love story ends tragically, as it must. </div><div></div><br /><div>What I found most remarkable about both novels is how they moved me. Knowing beforehand that these creative, poetic lives were snuffed out too soon did not save me from being devastated when it took place in the novels. I could not help wishing it would turn out some other way.</div><div></div><br /><div>Between these two books, I lost count of the characters who died of consumption. I read most of <em>Emily's Ghost</em> in the middle of the night while sitting up with Luca. His four-week-old cold has moved down to his chest, making him cough and wheeze like a consumptive. It was disconcerting to hear his rattling lungs while reading of Emily's and Ann's deaths from consumption and no surprise I could not find sleep even after finishing the book and turning off the nightlight.</div>Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-15891088051410645202010-01-25T12:43:00.008-06:002010-01-26T08:49:05.291-06:00Greater or Less than Hungry Crocodiles<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJV1okERYqgYh4zFQOUsmyK0geLejxY9HzFWlZb675XMHCe0DkLtb5RC007hLzXc2dntWbwFnsiEkIKXZt_rdQhJfTSykU5Kshr1GCxXP1oRHxW7D4yEuPYIulTTG2awOKgoJf3Wiyz8/s1600-h/clip_image001.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 227px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 106px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430759288091119986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJV1okERYqgYh4zFQOUsmyK0geLejxY9HzFWlZb675XMHCe0DkLtb5RC007hLzXc2dntWbwFnsiEkIKXZt_rdQhJfTSykU5Kshr1GCxXP1oRHxW7D4yEuPYIulTTG2awOKgoJf3Wiyz8/s320/clip_image001.gif" /></a>Sam ran upstairs where I was folding laundry to ask me the trick for remembering the greater-than and less-than arrows. When the arrow looks like an L that means less than, I told him. He only knows the crocodile trick, whatever that is, so he asked me to help Paolo with his homework. I joined Paolo at the table and casually glanced at the directions at the top of the worksheet. They used the crocodile trick, too, so I began my explanation: The crocodile's open mouth always faces the smaller number. It's a great, big, mean crocodile, and he's going to chomp the puny little number. Got it? We worked down half the page before I noticed something was awry. The L-arrows weren't indicating what they should. What the...?<br /><br />Now, you math geniuses were probably groaning several sentences ago, but I am not one of you. I am of the species <em>Liberalus Articus</em>, and my kind do not understand your strange symbols. My people study dead things and words. So. I re-read the directions and, sure enough, the crocodile chomps the bigger number. Fine, have it your stupid way. Completely mortified, I had to reverse my prior explanation to my trusting child and have him redo the worksheet. Never mind what I just said, I told Paolo, the crocodile isn't mean, really, just hungry, so it's going to chomp the bigger number. If you were really hungry, would you eat two cookies or twelve cookies?<br /><br />Once homework was done, I lashed out at Sam for putting me in charge of math, when he knew I didn't know the crocodile thing, and he did, and now Paolo is probably totally confused and won't get into college, because these are the types of building blocks an entire education is built on, and I've blown it. He was not surprised at all by my fervor and retaliated by reminding me that he came to get me because he knew his grasp on the subject matter was shaky, and I seemed very sure of myself, and this is what happens to children with two Liberal Arts-educated parents, so we should have known the day was coming when we couldn't help with math and science studies.<br /><br />Yes, but I didn't expect the day to come while our child is in first grade.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-4467413822646186882010-01-12T12:32:00.004-06:002010-01-12T12:44:14.492-06:00Mad LoveLove is...<br /><br />Not being offended when the 2010 World Cup commercial comes on, and I shush you, turn to the TV and raise my arms in victory at the clips of the Italian team celebrating after the 2006 final.<br /><br />Mad Love is...<br /><br />Knowing I will have the same reaction every day until June, but never changing the channel or rolling your eyes.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-10901859294031039002009-12-29T09:41:00.004-06:002009-12-29T12:51:21.315-06:00Revenge is a dish best served asleep.Creeping around the house in the dark of the early morning, moving silently, until - BANG - catching a doorknob with my hipbone. Let's start over. Limping around the house in the dark of the early morning, cursing softly, trying not to disturb my slumbering family. <br /><br />I'm so tired. At 4:00 this morning Luca kicked me awake before waking himself, sobbing for his daddy, just like he did when he was falling asleep seven hours ago. I attribute this to a little incident earlier in the evening, wherein Luca grabbed two fistfuls of Sam's beard and yanked. Sam's bloodcurdling howl of pain scared Luca half to death and probably made him think his daddy would never love him again.<br /><br />Sam took Luca into another room, and I was just settling down to sleep, when Paolo decided to have a serious conversation with me - despite being unconscious. His babbling gave way to snoring just as Luca returned and climbed back into bed. After adjusting once more to the knees, skulls and elbows pressing into me on both sides, sleep was creeping in like fog when my alarm went off.<br /><br />As I tiptoed around it occurred to me, slowly, like the throbbing in my hip, WHY THE HELL AM I TRYING SO HARD NOT TO WAKE THESE PEOPLE UP?Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-30611605599967621672009-12-23T13:08:00.009-06:002009-12-23T14:14:41.261-06:00The Eve of Christmas EveIt can be a little lonely spending Christmas without extended family, but we decided to stay home for the holidays this year and do it up right. It has been a month-long celebration of craft projects, holiday music, parades, Christmas lights, and at least a gallon of egg nog. Paolo picked out a beautiful tree, and Luca has left most of the ornaments alone. This is a big improvement over last year, when we just accepted that the bottom three feet of the tree would be bare. There have been a couple of decor casualties, like when Luca was mouthing an ornament and hooked himself like a fish, or when he shattered a glass ball on the tree by riding a car into it. <br /><br />There have also been some amazing moments of family harmony. Every morning Paolo opens a new door on the Christmas Countdown Calendar to get the small square of chocolate inside, and every morning he breaks it in half and gives a piece to Luca. Paolo also makes sure, when rummaging through the giant container of cookies sent by Grandma, to select cookies with a chocolate kiss in the center for himself and his brother, and a plain cookie for me. If I weren't absolutely swimming in chocolates and cookies (and peppermint bark, and sugar-coated nuts, and coffee cakes) at work, I might feel slighted. There's something deeply warming about seeing two people you love so much love each other.<br /><br />I don't have to work tomorrow, and my Christmas Eve to-do list makes me giddy: Play with the boys, pick up a freshly baked pannetone, make hot chocolate, wrap presents, and bake cookies for Santa. Mopping and laundry can just damn well wait until the 26th. If the weather reports are correct, we may even wake up to a white Christmas. If that's not enough to put stars in your eyes, I don't know what is.<br /><br />Happy holidays.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-13775518080997432902009-12-03T13:58:00.010-06:002009-12-04T16:06:40.674-06:00Thursday Overthink: FIFA World Cup 2010Friends, the next World Cup is nearly upon us. The games don't start until next summer, but the draw to determine the groups is TOMORROW. In case you were thinking of calling me for a chat Friday night, don't. I have mixed feelings about the tournament: I am excited of course - who doesn't love a good World Cup? - but loathe to lose my crown. I have no expectation of Italy winning again. Does this make me a bad fan? Winning two times in a row is a lot to ask, and I'm not greedy. But does that mean that I will watch without my heart in my mouth? I wonder if an Italian loss could ever hurt less than Tiger Woods coming home to a scorned wife at 2AM.<br /><br /><span style="color:#999900;">In World Cup news:<br /><br /></span><ul><li><span style="color:#999900;">Wal-Mart is going to put special shops promoting the World Cup inside its stores. No details have been provided, unless "unique opportunity for us to leverage our global scale" means anything to you. </span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="color:#999900;">FIFA and Sony have signed a deal to broadcast match highlights in 3D, and they are discussing doing the same with live matches. </span></li></ul>I don't understand this whole 3D movement in film and now TV. Do people still have to wear those red and blue glasses? If so, those better be stocked at Wal-Mart's World Cup Shop right next to the FIFA branded floor pillows I will need to cushion my head when I faint after watching Cannavaro slide-tackle in 3D.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-68334649556164791932009-11-27T17:55:00.007-06:002009-11-27T18:23:37.558-06:00Don't loose the goose.We are in Omaha for Thanksgiving, which means Sam and I are doing some serious shopping. Most girls prefer shopping alone or with girlfriends, but I always make the best purchases with my husband. I don't know how he does it, but Sam can pick out a pair of shoes from 20 yards away that, once I've tried on, I can't live without. <br /><br />One of our requisite stops in Omaha is Whole Foods, one of many stores that we don't have in Fayetteville. The wine and cheese section was packed with shoppers gleefully downing free samples, and we eagerly joined in. One of the platters held "goose mousse" on a wee cracker. I have never had goose pate, but it has been on my list of things to eat if ever faced with the opportunity. I handed a cracker to to Sam and we popped it in right after the Manchego.<br /><br />I offer the following taste experience as a public service announcement, in case any of you are thinking about classing up a holiday party with some pureed fowl. Imagine, if you will, a whole, unwashed goose - feathers, poop, and all - put into a blender, chilled, and spread on a triscuit. It was a real effort to get it down, and as I searched desperately for a complimentary swish of Beajoulais, Sam's pained gaze met mine. "What do you think?," he asked. "About the goose?," I replied. "I really wish that hadn't happened."Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-3400455891126469782009-10-31T13:41:00.004-05:002009-10-31T14:29:23.517-05:00Fully and Unmistakably TwoAs we pulled into the garage one sunny and warm Fall evening, Luca asked for bubbles. We had been trapped inside for what felt like weeks due to cold, rainy weather, and soon the days would be shorter, leaving no post-work opportunities to play outside. I grabbed the bubbles, Paolo grabbed his new spring-action, light-up, humming genuine Anakin Skywalker light saber, and Luca grabbed an empty bleach bottle from the trash. He casually sauntered out of the garage with his mouth around the open top. I tried to scream, but the tongue I'd just swallowed blocked the sound. I checked his skin for burns and his breath for the smell of bleach, but fortunately, the bottle had been bone dry.<br /><br />I stowed the bleach bottle in the rafters of the garage and walked back outside to see Luca with a terra cotta pot raised above his head, just before smashing it into another pot. I steered him away from that game, as well, and returned to blowing bubbles for Paolo. Luca then attempted to perforate himself with a steel tomato cage, concuss himself with a heavy shovel, before flipping open the outdoor electrical outlets. Please note that our garage is lined with toys: bikes, balls, buckets, tennis rackets, dump trucks, none of which are even remotely interesting to a two-year-old.<br /><br />Finally, Luca climbed into my car and began twiddling knobs and flipping light switches. Now the car is generally off-limits, but damn it, he couldn't kill himself in there. So I left well enough alone, and he honked and flashed and steered merrily in what I had decided was the safe, nonthreatening cocoon of my car. Bubble-time ended (it's actually really hard to pop bubbles with a light saber), and Paolo and I headed back into the garage. Luca opened the car door when he saw his brother, and Paolo walked over to help him climb out. As I returned the bubbles to the shelf above the washer, I heard a slam followed by a scream.<br /><br />I turned in horror to see Paolo's thumb stuck in the car door. By the grace of all that is good in the universe, only the tip of Paolo's thumb was smashed. No broken bones, no blood, just a whole lot of screaming and a black fingernail that is probably not long for this world. In case you're wondering what Luca was doing while I released Paolo's hand and ascertained whether we'd be headed for the ER, he was laughing and ejecting CDs from the car stereo.<br /><br />That's what I'm dealing with these days. My dad thought I was joking on the phone the other night when I admonished Luca to get out of the microwave. Folks, I have a two-year-old. It's like being at war, with an enemy who doesn't speak your language or respect the rules of combat, who is so irrational, his next move cannot be anticipated but is certain to leave you slackjawed.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-41167906431959356892009-10-12T11:31:00.004-05:002009-10-12T15:55:41.011-05:00There is no such thing as a free lunch.My office is an ugly business park, but occasional tenant perks include sample sales and lunch events featuring free food. Last week my co-worker and I headed over to O.P.M. Financial for a cookout. When we saw the sad little tent and two attendees, we should have kept driving, but our hunger and poverty parked the car.<br /><br />As we sat down to enjoy our charred hot dogs and lukewarm sodas, the host of the gala, Topp Dahler, sat down at our card table to discuss our money management needs. It was an awkward conversation, seeing that I was in zero need of his services. Less than zero. The only way I might hit a windfall (not already earmarked for daycare tuition) was if I had the closest guess to win the cash on the money tree, and, looking around at the empty folding chairs, those odds had to be pretty good. The “money tree” was a small, potted rubber plant with dollar bills paper-clipped to the leaves. To increase the difficulty, you also had to include the spare change sitting in a coffee cup in your total. Yes, I said spare change in a coffee cup, which Topp freely admitted he had cobbled together from various places like his desk drawer, couch, pants pockets, car, etc. Yikes.<br /><br />Since wealth, as a topic, wasn’t getting us far, we got an uncomfortable glimpse into Topp’s personal life. That Topp’s a good guy, but he should have known that anyone who stopped by to score a free hot dog was not sitting on a pile of money going unmanaged. My co-worker and I ate quickly and grabbed a cookie for the road, agreeing that the free lunch was not worth the painful small talk. Since we had written our money tree guesses on our business cards, I expected to hear from Topp again.<br /><br />Several days later, O.P.M. Financial popped up on my Caller ID, and I let it go right to voice mail. I was headed out to work off-site, so I gathered up the supplies I’d need and went to tell the department assistant where I would be. I grabbed a handful of gumdrops from her candy dish and popped a couple in my mouth as I headed back to my desk. For kicks, I thought I’d play my voice mail message to see if I’d won the money tree. I tossed a third gumdrop into my mouth as I double-clicked on the log showing the call. “O.P.M. Financial, this is Topp.” My mind began racing:<br /><br /><em>That’s a strange message…ohhhhhhh nnnnoooooo. When will I get this stupid call tracking software right? I just CALLED him BACK! Well, that’s it, I’m stuck. He has Caller ID, too. He knows it’s me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I have to talk to him now. Wait, can’t speak, mouth too full of gumdrops. Sticky, gummy, gumdrops. What do I do now? HOW LONG HAS THIS SILENCE GONE ON?</em><br /><br />Friends, the best solution I came up with was to slooooowly and silently replace the receiver and then burn with the shame of what I had done: I crank-called a well-meaning wealth advisor, subjected him to the sound of panicked gumdrop mastication for who knows how long, before hanging up on him.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-13545364524697441332009-08-11T10:27:00.006-05:002009-08-11T12:27:05.314-05:00It's About TraditionOn Saturday we went to Tontitown for the <a href="http://www.tontitowngrapefestival.com/">111th Annual Grape Festival</a>. Tontitown is a little community about 12 miles northwest of Fayetteville that was settled by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When I first moved to Fayetteville, everyone I met asked me if I was from Tontitown. I learned quickly that Italian last names are rare here, unless you’re a descendant of a Tontitown settler. Tontitown is very proud of its heritage and strives to keep its traditions alive, through annual events such as the fall Polenta Smear and the summer Grape Festival .<br /><br />As with all local fairs, the Grape Festival features a midway of sketchy rides, a visual feast of mullets, a section of arts and crafts tents selling Confederate flag bikinis, and a string of overpriced junk food vendors. Paolo nearly broke my heart when he opted for a corn dog instead of the wildly popular spaghetti dinner, but that’s his father in him. Throughout his boyhood, Sam didn’t miss a Missouri state fair, and the smell of carnie sweat and corn dogs (to be eaten on the fourth day of the fair, never earlier, allowing the grease enough time to reach the right level of putrid) always puts a certain twinkle in his eye.<br /><br />We ate over in the park so the boys could play on the multitude of playground equipment. There are half a dozen different play areas in the park, with lots of old-school gear not found in parks anymore. As we spun on the merry-go-round, I shared my story of how I got my worst scar from a merry-go-round on my elementary school playground. I was pushing it around and didn’t clear the edge when I jumped on, which left me with a two-inch long scar on my left shin. The next play area over, I described how I was nearly crippled as a child when a mean see-saw partner slid off the back of the seat, leaving me to plummet to the ground, crushing my feet under the seat. I can still feel the shock of that pain traveling like lightning from my ankles to my waist. It occurred to me there is a reason those particular playground artifacts are not in use anymore.<br /><br />After last year’s Grape Festival, I decided to inquire about volunteering at the local museum because I admired the community and really missed having a museum, no matter how small, in my life. I now serve on the Board of Directors and have befriended all those wonderful people whose last names end in vowels. They believe I have a lot to offer their small museum, and I am hopeful that I can prove them right.<br /><br />As we drove home, faces and fingers sticky with grape ice cream, I reflected upon past Grape Festivals we’ve attended, with Paolo growing from a toddler to a schoolboy, and Gianluca, first just a bump (of freakish proportions, due to arrive a week later), and now nearly ready for the rides. I pictured our family coming back to Tontitown year after year to enjoy their tradition, and to make it our own. I can honestly say that being a small part of this kind and welcoming Italian-American community makes it even easier to embrace a long, long stay in Northwest Arkansas.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-27644514707676329092009-07-24T16:50:00.006-05:002009-07-24T16:57:26.741-05:00My love is like a green, green pickle.Today marks the end of the first week at new daycares for both boys. Two weeks ago, their daycare shut down suddenly for financial reasons. This is the third daycare that has closed on us since we started depending on childcare services. I am the daycare widowmaker. To avoid boring you with the suffocating panic I felt the Friday afternoon we got the news, knowing I had no place to take my children the following week, I will simply say, it was not fun. Team Family pulled through, however, and after a week of Daddy Daycare with a few Take-Your-Kids-to-Work days sprinkled in, we found good situations for each of them. I have spent this first week nibbling my fingernails up to my elbows, but as it turns out, Paolo’s best friend from Kindergarten attends his summer camp, and Luca has not eaten anyone.<br /><br />Sam has been watching the Tour de France for the last thirty-six days. Apparently, during the Tour, five extra hours are added to each day in order to provide twenty-nine solid hours of daily Tour coverage. Phil Liggett and Bob Roll narrate my dreams. Paolo is nearly as rabid as his father. He gets a kick out of the elevation maps and enjoys showing me easy days vs. hard days based on the category and frequency of climbs. I will discuss this further in the divorce paperwork.<br /><br />Luca has developed his own language, and it is fascinating to me how it differs from Paolo’s verbal development. Paolo was all about animals and animal sounds at this age. Looking back, it wasn’t terribly useful for the purposes of communication, except maybe in a barnyard. Luca knows how to ask for things he wants, specifically, food. Even more specifically, ice and pickles. There is no disappointment, no meltdown, no rage that cannot be cured and calmed by offering Luca ice or pickles.<br /><br />Linguistic quirks of note:<br /><br />1. Anything liquid is “juice” (juice in a cup, juice from the garden hose, juice falling from the sky, juice in the toilet bowl).<br /><br />2. Paolo is Fuh-Fuh. I had been dying to know what Luca would call his brother, just desperate to hear him call for his brother with his sweet baby voice. Paolo called himself Ba-doh before he could pronounce his name, so I figured it would be close to that. Instead, Luca chose Fuh-Fuh. Where did that come from? Is it an approximation of “brother”? I wanted cute, and this is not cute. It’s weird. What the fuh?Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-51008238881446860032009-07-02T12:33:00.005-05:002009-07-03T14:40:28.153-05:00Home Sweet GONEMy new career is really eating into my blogging-at-work time. I'll have to bring that up at the next staff meeting. I have things to say, cute stories to tell, gripes to vent, but I have no time at a computer to bang them out. If there were some sort of technology available that would type up a post AS I WAS THINKING IT, I'd be golden.<br /><br />So here I am typing furiously when I should be packing up the family to drive to Omaha tonight. In a minute, in a minute! Yesterday, I found out about a house for sale the next street up from us. It was the right size, the right location, and saints be praised, the right price. Yeah, that lasted about 5 minutes before it had three offers and was ultimately sold in a day. We never had a chance. Apparently, a sincere homebuyer should have something called "pre-approval" for a mort-gauge, more-gorge, something like that. We have no such thing or any idea how to get one. Obviously.<br /><br />We're stubbornly committed to living in this neighborhood, arguably the most desirable area in town. I don't know who would argue about it. I know I wouldn't. At first I was crushed because we've been waiting (and may yet wait) years for an opportunity like this. But to look on the bright side, I learned a lot from the experience, like the need to be prepared to pounce. When a chance like this comes again, I don't want to lose out because I didn't do some groundwork. <br /><br />There is nothing stopping me except ignorance, so I am trying to remedy that. So far I've figured out that I need this pre-approvity for a home lawn thing. I am told it's important. Next I need a Real-tar. Fake tar is not as good, I'm guessing. I should have this all figured out very quickly.<br /><br />And that stupid house up the block that sold before I could dial the phone? It is steps away from our local city green space, our lovely green hill where the boys spend untold hours running, playing, hunting Easter eggs, sledding, and flying kites. Not that I care. Who wants to live that close to a park, anyway? The sound of children's laughter is SO annoying.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-68949798669870502442009-06-04T12:44:00.009-05:002009-06-04T14:33:08.002-05:00Graduation DayToday is Paolo's last day of Kindergarten. Yeah, on a Thursday. That's not very helpful to working parents. As usual, Sam and I will split Friday hours with me taking the afternoon shift. Since I'll take a half-day off this week, I couldn't take off Tuesday morning to ATTEND PAOLO'S GRADUATION. Minor event, right? Actually, it was a very casual non-cap-and-gown affair, so my heart only splintered into 42,000 pieces.<br /><br />When I got home Tuesday night, my darling husband plugged our videocamera into the TV to show me the footage he was able to get while sitting in a miniature chair and holding a squirming todder. I watched several short clips of the kids getting their diplomas while the teacher read what each child wants to be when he/she grows up.<br /><br />Then it was time for the slideshow. My jaw dropped when I saw the video length in the corner of the screen: over 11 minutes. Sam had recorded the entire show. As pictures of the class began cycling, I got all choked up. It wasn't the toothless grins that did me in; it was the understanding that my husband had gone to such trouble to make me feel like I hadn't missed anything. He knew, without any conversation, how much it killed me to miss this milestone and, as usual, he knew how to make it better.<br /><br />Less than two minutes into the slideshow, Luca picked up the videocamera and deleted the video. Irretrievably. A little piece of Sam's soul died, along with the last vestige of hope I had that Luca will end up anywhere other than jail.<br /><br />Speaking of life prospects, would you like to know what Paolo wants to be when he grows up? A dad. Barring that, a helicopter driver. I told him I can't vouch for which would be more exciting, but I know which is more important.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-89353851131102503492009-05-25T19:57:00.003-05:002009-05-25T20:30:17.348-05:00Missing them alreadyI am leaving tomorrow for a business trip that will take me out of state for the next four days. This will be the first time I have been gone from Luca and only the second time away from Paolo. Sam's parents are traveling here to help out in my absence because they are kind, but also because Sam and I have not told them that their grandsons have turned to the dark side.<br /><br />Paolo is a good kind of crazy: gymnastic, imaginative, a voracious reader and an unstoppable talker. In all seriousness, if his very life depended on his silence, he would not reach age seven. Much of what he says is funny and interesting, but the boy has no internal filter. Whatever he is thinking comes right out. He wonders aloud about approaching activities, toy acquisitions, or snacks again and again, despite having full information. Still, he is hands-down my favorite son right now.<br /><br />Luca has the devil in him. He is on the verge of getting kicked out of daycare for biting other children. My son is a biter. I fought the label until I saw the little Damien in action. He has been biting the bejesus out of his own brother. Apart from the biting, he is generally batshit crazy, which is not a good crazy. Like his older brother, he climbs on tables, leaps off couches and tears around the house at blinding speed. But, oh, he can be sweet. When he pats my face wearing an angelic smile, I am convinced he is too cute to be human. Then the wooden toy he is holding in his other hand connects with my skull, and I remember that he is, in fact, not human at all.<br /><br />And yet, I am already missing my little lunatics. I am also already feeling very, very sorry for their grandparents. I had better put away this sadness and enjoy my time apart because, after four motherless days with Crazy 1 and Crazy 2, I will never be allowed to leave again.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-82358391390748897472009-05-19T08:52:00.005-05:002009-05-19T09:04:58.834-05:00Orientation: Getting to Know Me<strong>New Co-Worker</strong>: I've been married to my wonderful husband for twelve years, and he has given me two terrific kids.<br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: My husband didn't <em>give</em> me my children. I'm pretty sure I earned them.Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3476107182752392492.post-64617860146868375072009-04-30T16:14:00.010-05:002009-04-30T16:34:10.269-05:00Thursday OverThink #7, courtesy of Floyd Landis<div><div>The 32nd Joe Martin Stage Race is nearly upon us. For you non-locals, it’s a professional cycling event held right here in Fayetteville; look for it May 7-10. Some cycling enthusiasts are all aflutter over the news that Floyd Landis will be here to participate in the upcoming event.<br /></div><br /><div>In <a href="http://www.nwaonline.net/articles/2009/04/28/local_sports/042909jmstagerace.txt">this news story</a>, the race director claims that Landis is, next to the vaunted Lance Armstrong, the most well known American cyclist. I argue that distinction should go to George Hincapie. Not only is he an amazing athlete, he is a strangely cool guy. Hincapie married a Podium Girl,* launched his own sportswear line, and lives in South Carolina where he's building a "<a href="http://www.pladadet.com/homes.html">professional training village</a>" for cyclists. Talk about living the dream. By contrast, Landis has been off the scene for years, what with that whole getting banned from professional cycling for doping thing.</div><br />I guess you could say Landis is more memorable. He was a soft-cell feature story: a former Mennonite who bucked family and religion to follow his dream of cycling and won the biggest bike race in the world. Until the routine blood-test results came back. After being found guilty of doping, even after appeal, stripped of his 2006 Tour de France title, fired from his cycling team, divorced, and banned from professional cycling through January 2009, Landis is back. He will be racing in Fayetteville as a member of Team OUCH. How appropriate.<br /><br /></div><div>I don’t wonder at his gall in returning to professional cycling. The dude has staggering mortgages and legal fees to pay. Apart from those electric Amish fireplaces, I don’t know what else Mr. Landis is qualified to do. However, I disagree with celebrating a cheater coming to town. </div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">*Podium Girls are the hot chicks who pose with and smooch the race winners post-event and hand out the prizes.</span></div>Quattro Stellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15536938191917459487noreply@blogger.com0