I had a photo essay planned for today, but my memory card reader decided to eat all the photos. NOM. POOF. Gone. No photos and no photo essay.
So now I'm facing the White Space Of Creative Terror with less than 20 minutes before I have to go pick up Noah from school. What should I talk about? AHMAHGAD.
I could talk about our roof, which you may remember started leaking in the wake of Snoverkill 2010: The Reckoning: Inconvenience Unleashed: the insurance guy came by yesterday to assess the damage.
Good news! There's only $650 in damage.
Bad news! Your deductible is $1,000. So. Good luck with your repairs.
Good news! Your roof wasn't damaged by the snow or ice.
Bad news! Your roof IS damaged, thanks to a certain snow removal guy who decided to get up there with a GODDAMN HAMMER. So. Good luck with THAT.
The insurance guy was really nice, so I felt bad for being a little "goddamn...I'll...hammer...fucking...getonyourroof seehowyoulikeit" at the end of his visit. Then Noah asked him if he was the Cowardly Lion. That was probably a little more awkward.
I could talk about Ezra and all the funny stuff he does, classic mommyblog style, like "Oh! He goes to the front door and says 'BYE' when he wants to go somewhere! He loves school buses and paper towel tubes! When I ordered some Indian food the other night he ran to his high chair and shrieked like a deranged howler monkey because he somehow knew there was food in the bag and I don't know if that means he's smart or I eat too much Indian food."
We're also trying to work on that whole "hands are not for hitting" thing, which is going only sort of okay. We've at least redirected his pint-sized rage away from living things and aimed at inanimate objects. I remember Noah went through a similar phase, at around...18 months? I want to say, though it is entirely likely that I am making that up. (If only I had a blog to write these things down! Or at least the energy and patience to search through that blog's archives!) It's kind of strange that two children who are never hit or spend time around people who hit still manage to pick up smacking as a default reaction to injustice. Inherent violence and aggression in humankind? Eh. Whatever. I'll tell you this: watching a toddler bitchslap a wall that he's just bumped into is HILARIOUS.
(INTERLUDE OF OH SHIT, I HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO GET TO THE SCHOOL THAT'S 20 MINUTES AWAY OH FUCK)
I could talk about the drive home from preschool, when Noah heard Bob Dylan for the first time. I was digging around in our basement for something the other day -- a stapler, I think, the one I swiped from my old office -- and came across a box full of Dylan CDs. At one point I must have boxed them up separately to denote their very specialness to me, and then promptly forgot completely about them. I've been busy. Buying a lot of Glee MP3s.
Anyway! I ripped a bunch of them and put them on the iPod, and today "Lily, Rosemary & the Jack of Hearts" came up, and Noah snapped to attention in the backseat and attempted to hum the harmonica and bounced his legs and just had this LOOK that he gets when he hears music that he really likes.
I asked him what color the song was. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't have a color!"
I played a couple other Dylan songs and the verdict was the same: He didn't know what color they were. So...I have no idea what that means, from a music or synesthesia theory point of view, but there you go: Bob Dylan songs don't have colors, but Noah sure likes them anyway.
(INTERLUDE OF SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION)
Big things a'going on at Mamapop this week: we launched SparkleMotion, a community blog/discussion/Tumblr/Twitter/repository of many awesome things...uh, THING. It's really fun. You can join and post whatever you want or check out the funny photos/videos/links that Mamapop writers and readers post, and my goodness, does that sentence have enough slashes? SparkleMotion: the original model/actress, bitches.
Also at Mamapop Proper, we're hosting our annual Oscars open thread this Sunday. It is an EXCELLENT party, considering you don't have to leave your living room and can say all the bitchy things about peoples' clothing that earn you the stinkeye from your more enlightened significant other. It starts at 7 pm ET.
Uh. I think that's all I have to talk about today. Hooray for posting at 4:50 pm on a Friday! Ten minutes until quittin' time. (Which around here actually means: 10 minutes until Sesame Street is over.)