I know I’ve mentioned before how sarcastic my family is.  I’m talking about the family I grew up with, although the Brights speak Sarcasm, they’re not quite as fluent.  When you’re at a Bright Family gathering there aren’t quite as many ironic eyebrows and dry retorts as there are when surrounded by my mother’s family.  We’re lethal.  Let’s say Dorothy Parker, if you’re not familiar you should be, would make an excellent honorary member and she would have fit right in.

Because I refuse to talk down to my children, I still use my multiple syllabic vocabulary and I don’t usually temper my sarcasam.  Hey, I figure they’re going to need to be able to conversewith my family and besides, I think it’s good for them to know a second language. I believe in total immersion when it comes to learning another language. 

Sassy speaks sarcasm but she often slips into the easy trap of bitchy and everyone knows that’s the lesser of the two dialects.

The Bandit is just beginning to get the hang of it and try it out for himself.  The only problem is he hasn’t gotten down the inflection required to effectively communicate the irony. He says the right words just in the wrong tone and with weirdly sweet facial expressions.

For example, we were in the car on the way to school yesterday.  He was in the third row seat way in the back holding his plate of toasted and quartered Pop Tart because he’d spent the entire morning screwing around instead of getting ready for school.  I hit a bump in the road and apparently his plate went flying.

“Thanks, Mom, I dropped my breakfast.” Now you can read his comment and know, especially based on the topic of this post, that he said it with irony.  But imagine him saying it with a smile on his face and a cheerful tone of voice from way in the back of the car. It was very confusing. 

I spend a great deal of time staring at him with a perplexed expression and saying, “I’m not following you, little man.”

The following is another of the reprinted news stories from one hundred years ago as reprinted by the local newspaper, The Arizona Daily Star as part of the centennial celebration.

I find this one particularly charming because there is a nice little romance involved. 

May 9, 1912,

Uncle Sam’s mail brought Mrs. Lorene Wagner of Cleveland, Ohio, and “Billy” Wilson, deputy sheriff of Maricopa county, Arizona, together.

They were married at 6 o’clock Monday evening inthe superior court room at Phoenix by judge J.C. Phillips.

Accompanied by her 6-year-old daughter, Mrs. Wagner arrived in Phoenix Saturday evening.  She came in response to a letter from Billy, asking her to come, look him over, and make him her husband, if he suited.

Some weeks ago sheriff Jeff Adams received a letter from Mrs. Wagner, who requested his help in finding her a husband.  She knew all kinds of eastern men, she said, but she wanted a breezy westerner, one who has the “heritage of the desert.”  That is she didn’t express it in that language, but she made it plain that she wanted a western husband, Arizonian preferred.

The letter was handed to Wilson, with a suggestion that he answer it.  Billy read that letter over a hundred times, and finally decided that he would reply to it.  It wasn’t days before he got another letter directly from Mrs. Wagner.  Many other letters traveled back and forth and finally they decided that Mrs. Wagner should come to Arizona.

On Sunday, Billy, Mrs. Wagner and her little girl drove over the valley, getting acquainted and talking over the future.  Mrs. Wagner liked the bluff, hearty deputy sheriff, and last night they agreed that they would make the mistake of their lives if they failed to become man and wife.

The next day Billy was busy making the preliminary arrangements and personally inviting all the friends he could find to be at the superior court.  He is just as proud as he can be, and it might be stated that since Mrs. Wagner was introduced at the courthouse, there are several young bachelors around there who are sorry they didn’t answer the letter instead of leaving it to Billy.

She is a rarely beautiful widow, still on the sunshiny side of 30.

As Mr. Wilson is one of the officials of the superior court, now in session, he and his bride will not take a wedding trip till later in the summer.

This story opens up all kinds of questions for me.  Did Mrs. Wagner and Billy kiss at some point during their “get acquainted” drive?  I’m guessing if the little girl was along, there wasn’t anything especially passionate about the kiss, if  indeed there was one, and certainly nothing any more provocative than a kiss occurred.

Did Mrs. Wagner decide Billy was acceptable simply because the idea of climbing back on the train and going all the way back to Ohio with a kid in tow was too excruciating to contemplate?

I feel like this story needed a follow up.  Did they live happily ever after?  What was her first name?  What became of the little girl? I wonder what the age difference was between Mrs. Wagner and Billy since she was on the “sunshiny side of 30.”

Someone who is not me should write this story and fill in the blanks.

“The story of a mother’s life: trapped between a scream and a hug”

-Cathy Guisewite, funny page phenomenon – the author of Cathy.

In my experience, I think she’s nailed it.

Any of you interested in the new books I’ve read and reviewed, follow the jump and see what I said about A Tale of Two Lovers by Maya Rodale.

I did enjoy the book as a whole.  Ms. Rodale has written a story and characters that are not caricatures of every other Regency hero and heroine.  I for one have never read one where the heroine teaches her friends the art of boxing in the front parlor after her husband has given her some pointers.

My day off was FAB-U-LOUS! I got a zillion errands run and still had time to sit down in a cafe and write out almost all of chapter twenty.

I also dropped the kids off at school, went to the bakery to order a birthday cake, took items back to Target and Walmart (ick!), went to the post office, the dry cleaners, the UPS store, the bank, and got the kids registered for summer camp – all by 10am.  I felt like the Marines only with better hair.

While I was at Target, I was delighted to find the latest Sookie Stackhouse book.  I knew it was coming out in May, but I thought it was at the end of the month.  I squealed, loudly.  Loudly enough for people to turn and stare.  Clearly, these people don’t know what they’re missing.  Also, and this is almost the best part, it was on sale – like 60% off. LA!

*****

The Bandit and I had another odd conversation in his bed this evening.  He wanted to know where the end of the rainbow was located.

“It moves all the time so you can never be sure.”

“Maybe if we ask a leprechaun.” Don’t you love how this seems completely reasonable to a six year old?

I was understandably skeptical. “I don’t know how much luck we’d have with that,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Well, leprechaun’s aren’t very nice.  They tell you the wrong directions and generally screw you up,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked again.

“I told you.  They’re not nice little people.”

“Maybe it’s because they always have to wear green.  That would make me mad.”

I shall file this information away under Good To Know.

Due to the largess of the enormous national company Ava and I are employed by, we get the next two days off.  Add those days to the weekend and we have four days off.  In. A. Row.

I don’t even know what to do with myself.

I do have a list as long as my arm of errands I need to take care of while I am kidless, but it’s really important to me to get a whole bunch of writing done, too.  I have no idea how I’m going to get everything done, but I’m sure going to try. If you need me, I’ll be holding down the fort at Starbucks or my favorite cafe.  For some reason, I can always concentrate there.

*****

Tonight I was sitting on the couch working on this blog and flipping channels. I paused on American Idol because the girl singing wasn’t half bad.  I stuck with it as the judges started their critique which I honestly can’t remember.  What I do remember is the fact that one of the judges mentioned she was fifteen and the fact that she was wearing three inch heels.  I had to call Kelli to see if I was way off base, but I think if Sassy toddled out to the living room at fifteen years old wearing heels like that, I would have a stroke. 

A stroke I tell you.

Admittedly, I was still very much a tomboy at fifteen and even up to my twenties.  I don’t think I even owned any high heels until I was into my twenties. 

It is true the girl was glammed up for American Idol and the television audience, but I see this at Target and the mall and all over the place – little girls as young as seven and eight wearing sandals with a chunky heel. 

Maybe I’m just that old and out of touch, but I want my little girl to be a little girl for as long as possible and that means not dressing like a grown up. 

What do you all think?  Am I hopelessly twentieth century?

The state I live in turns 100 on February 12, 2012 so the local newspaper has been reprinting news stories from 1912.  This one My Honey pointed out to me and we both found it delightfully amusing if only for the florid word choices.

April 28, 1912

Someone had got Dr. Crepin’s goat.  This was learned yesterday afternoon when several of his friends came into his office to view the elegant cut of mutton of which the doctor claimed he was the owner.

Yesterday doctor Crepin made a trip into the country, north of the town, to a farmer friend of his.  The genial rustic wished to show his appreciation for the doctor’s visit and accordingly killed a fine young goat, dressed it and gave it to the doctor on his departure.

Arriving in the city, the doctor divided the cut of mutton and presented Dr. Huffman with one half.  The other he carefully laid away in his office.  Proud of the possession of this fine meal to be, Dr. Crepin sallied forth upon street to meet his friends, five or six of whom he acquainted with the fact of his treasure.  He called them to his office to view the beautiful cuts and ribs.  But, lo, upon returning, he and the friends could find the meat nowhere.

The city physician sorely vexed put forth in haste to the police station and notified them of the theft.  He offered $10 for the thief dead or alive.

Back upon the main street again he bethought himself that he had invited several of his friends to a fine meal of mutton, for Sunday dinner.

Dejected and sore, he entered a butcher shop and there purchased “some fine mutton.” And this is what got the doctor’s goat.

Does anyone else find it alarming the doctor offered the reward “dead or alive” over the theft of meat?  I’m sorry he was “sorely vexed” but that seems a bit excessive coming from a physician.  But my favorite line is “sallied forth upon street.” Who says that?  And then, “but, lo, upon returning.” I ask you, who, besides me, talks like that?

It is always amusing to me to see how our language is constantly evolving.

The Bandit turns six tomorrow and, coincidentally, he lost his first tooth yesterday.  Of course, he tucked it under his

Bandit with an extra hole

 pillow so the tooth fairy would come.

Tonight as we were snuggling in his bed, I asked him about it.

“Did you see the Tooth Fairy last night?” I asked?

“No!” he squealed. 

“Did you feel her sneak your tooth out from under your pillow?”

“Nope,” he answered.

“Really?” I kept pushing cause he was giving me nothing to work with here.  “You really didn’t see her?”

“Nuh-uh,” he reaffirmed.

“What do you suppose she looks like?” I asked, expecting the typical fairy description. 

He answered right away.  “I think she looks just like your parents.”

“Really?” This alarmed me.  What did he know? “My parents or your parents?  Do you think the tooth fairy looks like Poppa with wings?”

“No, silly.” He giggled.  God, I love to hear him giggle.  “She looks like you and Daddy.”

“You think she looks like Daddy – with wings?” Now I giggle.  I’m imagining My Honey – all six feet plus of him – with wings and his goatee digging around under a Toy Story pillowcase for a chicklet sized tooth.  “Why do you think that?”

And here is where I discovered the genius that is my boy.  “Because if the kid wakes up and sees his parents he wouldn’t think anything of it.”

I’m quiet.  This is pretty good thinking.  He continued with his theory.  “See, if the kid wakes up then, poof, the fairy changes into your mom real quick and tells you to go back to sleep.”

I can totally work with this.  Genius, I tell you.

The Royal Wedding was the big thing last week.  You all know that unless you’ve been living in a vacuum.  The Sisters were completely sold on the idea.  Ava and her son even got up at the ungodly hour of 4am to watch.  I watched a replay while the kids and I got ready for work and school.  All of us agreed that Kate looked lovely in her dress, even if she did have on more makeup than necessary.  Her gown was dreamy and such a departure from Diana’s frothy nightmare.  William and Harry looked very handsome in their uniforms.  I thought the Queen looked like a tub of margarine in her head to toe yellow, and I still find Prince Charles and Camilla leave a nasty taste in my mouth.

But none of that was my favorite thing about watching the wedding.  Neither were the kisses on the balcony or their sweet ride in Will’s convertible.

By far, my favorite thing, and indeed it may rank up there in my list of all time favorite English things right there with Irish accents, David Beckham, Jane Austen, rolling green hills and sheep, is hats.  HATS!  Holy mother of God was there some outstanding head gear at that wedding.  I really wanna start wearing hats.

Let’s take a look, shall we.

This is my favorite by far.  It’s completely and totally insane – but fun, which is what I understand Beatrice is full of.  When I imagine wearing this hat, I see myself batting at imaginary bugs or dodging from imaginary birds because the shadows would fall on your face all day.  I’d forget I was wearing a hat and I’d give myself a black eye. 

This next one makes me worry that if there was a strong wind, she’d break her neck. And black, really?  It seems a bit dour for a royal spring wedding.

This one is especially delightful because she’s matched the feathers with her hair so you can’t be 100% sure where her hair ends and the insanity begins.  I love this.  Here in the US if you’re having a bad hair day, you don a boring old baseball cap.  Not in jolly old England apparently.  The Brits celebrate the bad hair by marrying it up with a chicken.

I love the way this lady is throwing a look over her shoulder that seems to say, “I know,  Crazy right?”  This hat is a good example of another odd thing about hats over there.  They all seem to sit on one side of the head or the other. At some point, don’t these ladies feel their necks tilting to the opposite side in order to compensate?  I worry about this.  Do you suppose it’s a conspiracy with the millinars and the chiropractors of Great Britan?

This one is the worst.  I don’t even find anything funny about it.  This is atrocious – blue on blue on blue on blue.  And she has a canoe on her head.  **shudder**

This final hat I totally want to own.  It’s crazy and big and red and flowery and fabulous.  Now this net crap she has wound all over herself, I don’t know about.  That just looks stupid.

For those of you interested in what I’ve thought of the last several romance Advance Reader Copies of I’ve read, I’ve

Alien in the Family by Gini Koch

Any Man of Mine by Rachel Gibson

posted reviews on my examiner.com column.

Check them out if it’s your cup of tea…..Earl Grey tea.  And scones.  MMMmmmmmmmm scones.

Off to get scones.  I’ll be back to post later.

Midnight's Wild Passion by Anna Campbell