The Bandit has a crush on his kindergarten teacher.  I know this because he wrote her a note, sealed it in an envelope he stole from my desk, and asked me to stamp it.  I was told I couldn’t look inside because it was secret.

This sat on my desk for two days amid the clutter of Golden Heart Contest entries, stuff for the interviews I have to write for the Tucson Festival of Books, editing pages for Dalton & Olivia’s book, blog ideas and cast off earrings.  I found it this evening.  It sat there unmolested for approximately 15 seconds while I searched my conscience.  The devil won and I opened it.

For those of you tsk tsking at me, I say bah!  If I didn’t open it then how can I tell you what was in it.  If you disagree with me opening the envelope on moral grounds or some other nonsense, then you can feel free to go and come back tomorrow when I have something less offensive to tell you. 

The rest of us who are dying to know what a five year old tells his kindergarten teacher whom he has a crush on will forge ahead, and if that means karma demerits, then so be it.

The letter was very simple.  There were only two lines. 

Ilovyoo. 

The lad has some issues with remembering to put the space between new words.  And remembering the silent “e” as well.  But to be fair, love doesn’t following the silent “e” rule.  If it did, the word would rhyme with dove.  As in the past tense of to dive, “we dove into water”.

The second line is where it gets really good.

Of course, his pictures were pencil drawings but they were of an eye, a heart and a sheep.  A ewe.

I know there is a contingent of people out there who think I make this stuff up.  That the dialogue isn’t real and the stories figments of my fertile imagination.  Nope.  I have the proof.  On my desk in the form of a piece of printer paper folded seventy-five times and shoved in a legal size envelope.

And I’m keeping it forever.  If he expects these kinds of things to get to his teacher, in the future, I suggest he find someone more responsible and less prone to mushy, melting momness.

Dinner is a never ending source of frustration for My Honey and I.  Every single dinner turns into a teeth gritting, eye glaring fiesta of torment.  I can’t understand how I gave birth to and raised two people to the ages of 5 and 7 who have less skill in reading body language than a retarded sea monkey.  Honestly.  And it is unfathomable that neither one of them is even remotely deterred by my Pirate Look of Death glare.

Tonight, My Honey was tired of the usual games and when I came back from using the bathroom, there were children already in their pajamas.

“Tell your daughter to brush her teeth and go to the bathroom,” his said this with eyes wide, lips pursed, and his head tilted slightly to the left.  This is a sure sign that his control is tenuous. 

Across the room, the girl is lounging on the couch in her flannel princess nightgown.  She’s watching television and doesn’t look even remotely worried.  “Go brush your teeth and finish getting ready for bed.”

Sassy sat up and tore her gaze from the television.  “What?” she asked, disbelief clear in her voice.

I gave her father a staying look.  “Go brush your teeth and do what ever you need to and get in bed,” I repeated.

She looked at the clock and saw how far it was from her usual bedtime and then stalked down the hall.  “Oh my God,” I heard her tell her brother.  “They’re actually sending us to bed.”

“What?” exclaimed The Bandit, clearly as unbelieving as his sister.  “Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah,” she huffed the words.

And go to bed they did.  I didn’t know what to do with myself.  Guess what I did.  I finished the book I’ve been reading for – it seems forever – and it’s a shame because it’s been a really fantastic book – book two in the Blades of the Rose series by Zoe Archer.

An hour of guilt free reading.  Ahhhhhhh.  Maybe they’ll be horrible again tomorrow.

Oh My God! There’s a crime wave!  I think they were here at my house last week.

And I’ve got to stop it.  I can’t take it anymore.

I don’t know if it’s because the horrible news happened here, in my back yard, or what, but I’ve read every single news story and I’ve simply got to stop. 

It’s just too depressing.  I’m going to strive to be super-boring – I’m well on my way.

My Honey had band practice on Friday night.  That always bums me out, but not for the reason you probably think.  Unlike many women who marry a musician, I have no problem with him playing with his friends or having gigs – even ones out of town.  I’ve never been able to understand those women who get with musicians, probably having met them in a circumstance like a bar or club that involved music in the first place, and then demand they stop playing.  Well, in my experience, they don’t demand anything, they just make it increasingly difficult for the guy to get to play.

Anyway, that’s not my problem with him playing.  I WANT him to go play.  You can’t even begin to imagine how annoying he gets if he doesn’t get out to play on a frequent basis. For a while after we got married, his current band dissolved and he didn’t play for a couple of months.  By the end of it, I was begging him to find someone to play with.  He was driving me insane. 

But as I said, that’s not the reason his having practice bums me out.  It’s because I have to figure out, all by myself mind you, what to have for dinner.  This, as we’ve discussed before, is not my forte.  But this Friday, I had a brilliant epiphany. 

“So you guys,” I said as Sassy, The Bandit and I all lounged on the couch watching TV after Daddy left.  “What do you want for dinner.”

“I don’t care,” they both said.  Clearly they knew what they were getting themselves into when Daddy left without feeding them.  They probably thought we were going to eat Goldfish crackers and peanut butter with a spoon or something.  I haven’t served that yet, but it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility.

And then it occurred to me.  “Hey,” I said, sitting straight up on the couch, the throw blanket coming loose and disturbing the cat.  “How about if we have waffles?”

The kids looked at me like I was a mad genius. 

“Yeah!” they screamed in glee.  The cat fled the scene, wanting no more part of these shenanigans.

While we ate homemade Winnie the Pooh and Tigger waffles covered in butter and warm maple syrup, they asked why we’ve never done this before.

“Cause Daddy won’t let me make breakfast food for dinner,” I told him.  I’ve never been able to figure out why he takes such umbrage at the idea, but he refuses.  When I was single, I ate breakfast food for dinner all the time.  Maybe not waffles, but certainly cereal or eggs and toast.

The kids exchanged a glance.  “Can we tell him or is it a secret?” Sassy asked taking a drink from her ice cold milk.

“I don’t care if you tell him.  He won’t care that we ate it, but he won’t,” I explained.

“Daddy is crazy!” The Bandit said with a great deal of emphasis on the last word.  “This is the best dinner EVER, Mom.”

Looks like practice night is forever after Waffle Night at Chez Bright.  If you come over, bring more syrup.  We’re running low.

I swear I’ve had this conversation – almost word for word.  It makes a struggling writer want to slit their wrists.  But it’s still funny in a rock yourself in the corner and weeping sort of way.

check out the other films on youtube.

The Bandit and his father were having a conversation and I was trying to eavesdrop.

“Did you buy me my Maserati yet?”  Believe it or not, this was spoken by My

If the boy's buying I think we should get this one.

 Honey.

“No,” came the higher pitched voice of my other favorite male.

“Why not?”  They were picking up about ten thousand Matchbox cars at the time so I guess that was how the subject got started.  I have no idea how long My Honey has been negotiating for a Maserati but this didn’t seem like a new conversation.

“I don’t know.”  Clunk clunk clunk went the little metal cars as they landed in the carrying case.

“Well, you better hurry up boy cause I really want that car.”

The conversation went on in this vein for a while.  I couldn’t always hear the words, but I could hear the deep chuckle of my husband and the higher pitched giggle of the boy while they worked.

After a few minutes I heard little feet running down the hall and then a little mouth next to my ear.

“Momma, how much is a Maserati?” he whispered.

“A lot,” I told him.  “You better get a really good job if you’re gonna by Daddy a Maserati.”

“I could get a job around the house,” he said with excitement.

“No, I mean you’re going to have to do really well in kindergarten and the rest of school so you can get a really good job when you grow up.  Maserati’s are really expensive,” I told him.

He look deflated for about five seconds before he perked up.  “Well, he’s just going to have to want a cheaper car.”

I’m always researching.  I do it at bookstores, libraries and on line.  I can’t even look up a word in the dictionary without getting sidetracked for twenty minutes.  There is always some interesting word that catches my eye and then another and another until it snowballs and I can’t remember what I opened the dictionary for in the first place.  Lord help me if there is a map in there, then I’m really doomed.  I have no less than four thesauruses.  Or is it thesaurusi?  I don’t know, and I don’t have time to look it up.  I just told you what would happen if I did. 

I have picture books for research, too.  I have one on English Gardens and another on English Manor Houses. And just in case the first one didn’t have what I want there is also, Great English Houses and a copied article on Georgian & Regency Houses.  I have several on castles – both how they worked and were built as well as  what they look like.  Apparently, I am quite curious about where people live.

While I was looking up something or other on the Internet, I found this over at Bookninja. 

Isn’t this brilliant?  I love how they are broken down into categories.  And some of them are funny – “a harem of sexbots” for example.  A clubbing of chupacabra.  An itself of Yahwehs.  A choir of seriel killers.

Now I just need a story where I can use “a yearning of Sasquatches”

My mom and I went to see Wicked tonight.   I was so excited to see it and Imost definitely wasn’t disappointed.   I adored the costumes and the set was all steam-punky cool.  The gal who played Glinda was adorable and funny.  I might adopt some of her little kicky moves!  If you get a chance to, go.  It’s a delight.

I was however disappointed with the restaurant I chose to take Mom to.  Once upon a time it was a cute little place, a gourmet deli if you will.  My Honey and I loved the food and the concept but we never thought it would stay open.  We introduced several people to the place, all of whom became fans.  After several years, they altered the concept and became a regular plated restaurant.  We were a little disappointed but the food was still good.  Then last year they moved to a bigger space and, tonight when I took Mom there, I discovered they’ve become a little too big for their britches.

It was 5:30 on a Tuesday.  The place was mostly empty.  However, we didn’t have a reservation so we couldn’t be accomodated.  And the hostess was hoity toity about it too.  I’ll probably never eat there again because who remembers to make reservations on a Tuesday unless it’s something special.

Damn.  They had the best chocolate pistachio beignets.  Alas.