You can't call yourself an art enthusiast if you have not seen these glorious, fully-expressive pieces by Mia Araujo. Awesome detailing, vivid colors and portrayal--simply delightful to the senses. Don't miss it and be a doofus.
Well, what are you waiting for?
What's that? I didn't give you the link?
[sheepish grin]
Here ya go then!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wreck This!
Ah who thought I could get addicted to one particular blog?
I have to confess, I spent hours--hours, mind you, I mean my butt was glued to my seat, my nose up the screen, ignoring the ominous cracking sounds of plastic against wood and the predictable wail that signalled someone's toy was broken, the ensuing ruckus behind me with one high-pitched voice crying, "Mine! No, mine!"...
[eyes glazed over, grin widening at the fresh new wreckreations appearing on the screen]
Oh, you still here?
Sorry. Like I said, it's become an addiction. I don't smoke, I don't do drugs, and I don't drink (alcoholic beverages, that is), but this--chain me up 'cause I'm guilty as charged.
Two words: CAKE WRECKS.
See for yourself. But I'm warning you, you're gonna get suck in its vortex and then we will have to start an intervention, eh?
I have to confess, I spent hours--hours, mind you, I mean my butt was glued to my seat, my nose up the screen, ignoring the ominous cracking sounds of plastic against wood and the predictable wail that signalled someone's toy was broken, the ensuing ruckus behind me with one high-pitched voice crying, "Mine! No, mine!"...
[eyes glazed over, grin widening at the fresh new wreckreations appearing on the screen]
Oh, you still here?
Sorry. Like I said, it's become an addiction. I don't smoke, I don't do drugs, and I don't drink (alcoholic beverages, that is), but this--chain me up 'cause I'm guilty as charged.
Two words: CAKE WRECKS.
See for yourself. But I'm warning you, you're gonna get suck in its vortex and then we will have to start an intervention, eh?
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Spooky Saturday Fun
I hereby declare that my little demolition ball, aka baby boy, be called from this time and henceforth, the prodigious name of Count Cannonball, defender of Skittles, knight-errant of the two kingdoms bordering Granny's patio and Mommy's kitchen, and the advocate of the poor and the needy bugs (and whatnot) living in the dirt.
The lovely Maiden of Puddingshire, aptly christened Elizabeth but disliking the name, insisted upon being called Lady Belle instead, in honor of her all-time favorite movie and story, Beauty and the Beast. Thus she is to be called: Lady Belle, Maiden of Puddingshire, lover of chocolate and all things glittery and shiny, and wearer of silken tutus and scratchy tulle.
******
As I do not want you to think I have gone bonkers, or that my brain has spiraled beyond the acceptable limits of eccentricity, let me explain the inspiration for the above declarations.
Saturday found us at the local museum attending a fun event, with a myriad of activities including arts and crafts, games, face painting, and a tour of the Pirate's lair for the whole family. The theme was Pirates, Fairies, and Such. Dressing up, though not required, was duly encouraged, so my son donned a pirate's hat, while my daughter was decked in full Tinkerbell attire, with wings and all. Upon entry, the children were given names that were picked out of some bowls. Hence, Count Cannonball and Lady Belle (which was originally Maiden Elizabeth the Third) came to life. Needless to say, we all had fun.
And now, for the purposes of my blog, the brilliant idea came to me to use these fanciful names when referring to my kiddos. Then I would not have to keep saying, my little boy, or my little girl. So there you have it.
The lovely Maiden of Puddingshire, aptly christened Elizabeth but disliking the name, insisted upon being called Lady Belle instead, in honor of her all-time favorite movie and story, Beauty and the Beast. Thus she is to be called: Lady Belle, Maiden of Puddingshire, lover of chocolate and all things glittery and shiny, and wearer of silken tutus and scratchy tulle.
******
As I do not want you to think I have gone bonkers, or that my brain has spiraled beyond the acceptable limits of eccentricity, let me explain the inspiration for the above declarations.
Saturday found us at the local museum attending a fun event, with a myriad of activities including arts and crafts, games, face painting, and a tour of the Pirate's lair for the whole family. The theme was Pirates, Fairies, and Such. Dressing up, though not required, was duly encouraged, so my son donned a pirate's hat, while my daughter was decked in full Tinkerbell attire, with wings and all. Upon entry, the children were given names that were picked out of some bowls. Hence, Count Cannonball and Lady Belle (which was originally Maiden Elizabeth the Third) came to life. Needless to say, we all had fun.
And now, for the purposes of my blog, the brilliant idea came to me to use these fanciful names when referring to my kiddos. Then I would not have to keep saying, my little boy, or my little girl. So there you have it.
Friday, October 9, 2009
First Day Goodbyes Are A Lie
All month long in August, my daughter bounced, twirled, talked, and talked some more. Her eyes sparkled. The smile etched on her sweet face remained stuck even in her sleep. Such abounding joy seemed to know no end. And the reason for this: School.
Yes, you heard me. School. I had never seen anyone so excited about school in my life. She was starting kindergarten, see. We went shopping and picked out her school bag. We laid out the clothes she would wear for her very first day. I set my alarm so I could do this right: lovely breakfast in the morning, the curlers out to curl her hair, her sparkling shoes by the door....
We came early and took pictures outside the school grounds. Her little hand clinging to mine, the smile was still there so I did not worry. The first half hour, the parents were invited to come inside. It was a whirlwind of loud chaotic shuffling, as we tried to cramp ourselves in the busy classroom. There were activities laid out. Handprints, measurements, find the letter of the alphabet written on the paper, test out the toilet and teach your kid how to wash their hands, look for the cubbies, and so on and so forth. By the time we were done, I wiped the beady sweat off my brow and ushered my clunky stroller out the door, waving goodbye to my little girl as I left.
Where was the emotional, teary, "Mommy, stay" moment I heard about on first days? Did I miss it? Am I so kooky this special event was not allowed to me?
The next day, we walked to school. We were early again. There was quiet, with only a few tots scrambling up and down the playground slide. I asked, "Do you see any of your friends anywhere?" She shook her head, her hand clasped tight in mine. I asked again, "Do you want to go in and play?" Another shaking of head no. I said, "Okay, we'll wait for one of them to show up."
It was a Friday, a short day, so the schedule was different. The bell rang and still no sight of her friends anywhere. The parents must have forgotten afternoon kindergarten started early on Fridays. I urged my little silent companion to go on and line up.
She went and came back. "My teacher's not there." A teacher came out. "Go on," I said. She went and came back. "That's not my teacher." She clung to me, a frown marring her beautiful features.
"It's okay, I'll be right here until you go inside." I kissed the top of her head. Finally her teacher came out. "I love you, mommy," she blurted and gave me a hug. Then she ran off before I could say I love you back.
I watched her stand in the line. I watched her as she went through the door. I watched even when I could not see her anymore.
I pushed the stroller, where my little boy sat contentedly, oblivious to the emotions raging inside me. "C'mon, sweetie," I said to him, "let's go home."
I sniffed. I didn't bother wiping the wet streaks on my cheeks. No one would see. The streets were empty.
Yes, you heard me. School. I had never seen anyone so excited about school in my life. She was starting kindergarten, see. We went shopping and picked out her school bag. We laid out the clothes she would wear for her very first day. I set my alarm so I could do this right: lovely breakfast in the morning, the curlers out to curl her hair, her sparkling shoes by the door....
We came early and took pictures outside the school grounds. Her little hand clinging to mine, the smile was still there so I did not worry. The first half hour, the parents were invited to come inside. It was a whirlwind of loud chaotic shuffling, as we tried to cramp ourselves in the busy classroom. There were activities laid out. Handprints, measurements, find the letter of the alphabet written on the paper, test out the toilet and teach your kid how to wash their hands, look for the cubbies, and so on and so forth. By the time we were done, I wiped the beady sweat off my brow and ushered my clunky stroller out the door, waving goodbye to my little girl as I left.
Where was the emotional, teary, "Mommy, stay" moment I heard about on first days? Did I miss it? Am I so kooky this special event was not allowed to me?
The next day, we walked to school. We were early again. There was quiet, with only a few tots scrambling up and down the playground slide. I asked, "Do you see any of your friends anywhere?" She shook her head, her hand clasped tight in mine. I asked again, "Do you want to go in and play?" Another shaking of head no. I said, "Okay, we'll wait for one of them to show up."
It was a Friday, a short day, so the schedule was different. The bell rang and still no sight of her friends anywhere. The parents must have forgotten afternoon kindergarten started early on Fridays. I urged my little silent companion to go on and line up.
She went and came back. "My teacher's not there." A teacher came out. "Go on," I said. She went and came back. "That's not my teacher." She clung to me, a frown marring her beautiful features.
"It's okay, I'll be right here until you go inside." I kissed the top of her head. Finally her teacher came out. "I love you, mommy," she blurted and gave me a hug. Then she ran off before I could say I love you back.
I watched her stand in the line. I watched her as she went through the door. I watched even when I could not see her anymore.
I pushed the stroller, where my little boy sat contentedly, oblivious to the emotions raging inside me. "C'mon, sweetie," I said to him, "let's go home."
I sniffed. I didn't bother wiping the wet streaks on my cheeks. No one would see. The streets were empty.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sleep Is But An Arm's Reach Away
Until my baby springs up like a tight coil and wails from his crib for Ba-ba. Oh wait, you don't know what a Ba-ba is? This two-syllabic word constantly rings in my ears, to the point that when I am in public and the little one is on the verge of a--dare I say it--a meltdown, I press my face into the stroller and, in an equally high-pitched, high-strung voice, I say, "Do you want a Ba-ba? A Ba-ba? Do you want it? A Ba-ba, yes?" to looks of repressed horror and confusion from onlookers.
A Ba-ba. What the heck is that? Men turn their faces away as if embarrassed to be caught watching a spectacle that has baffled and tweaked their curiosity for centuries. Women scowl, unafraid to show their disapproving visages, which only scares the baby and induces him to shriek some more.
A Ba-ba. Here? In the mall? In the middle of this traffic of moving, aimless bodies taking shelter under the bright lights of a building that seem to offer so many enticements--bold red ads screaming SALE 50% OFF, because in truth the store would close give or take a few weeks if no customers come their way.
I take out the diaper bag. I rummage inside. An old woman frowns, thinking, What is she doing? In the old days, all it took to feed a baby was a hungry mouth, a nursing bra, and maybe a blanket for a little privacy, inside the comforts of a bedroom in their own homes.
I take out the Ba-ba. Ah, the onlookers disperse. My baby grabs the bottle, a happy smile on his face. He says, "Ba-ba", for good measure, and leans back on his stroller. His eyelids flutter and close.
A Ba-ba. What the heck is that? Men turn their faces away as if embarrassed to be caught watching a spectacle that has baffled and tweaked their curiosity for centuries. Women scowl, unafraid to show their disapproving visages, which only scares the baby and induces him to shriek some more.
A Ba-ba. Here? In the mall? In the middle of this traffic of moving, aimless bodies taking shelter under the bright lights of a building that seem to offer so many enticements--bold red ads screaming SALE 50% OFF, because in truth the store would close give or take a few weeks if no customers come their way.
I take out the diaper bag. I rummage inside. An old woman frowns, thinking, What is she doing? In the old days, all it took to feed a baby was a hungry mouth, a nursing bra, and maybe a blanket for a little privacy, inside the comforts of a bedroom in their own homes.
I take out the Ba-ba. Ah, the onlookers disperse. My baby grabs the bottle, a happy smile on his face. He says, "Ba-ba", for good measure, and leans back on his stroller. His eyelids flutter and close.
Kooky Cookies: Let’s hear you say that fifty times really fast
It is true. I don’t bake cookies. Why bake’ em when you can buy ‘em is my motto. Actually, it’s one of many. One other is: You do what you can do. But I digress.
Cookies, yes, we’re talking about cookies. My personal favorite is the snickerdoodle. My little girl adores chocolate chips, but then again, she is a chocoholic. Case in point: She once downed a couple’s portion of a dark chocolate cake all by herself. Mind you, I said dark. And chocolate bars that are 80% dark cocoa? Yes, she can eat those too. In a mouthful.
Now, my little boy—he can live without chocolate. He likes a bite here and there, but that is all. He is more of a sugar cookie connoisseur. Gooey frosting and all. With sprinkles, please. It gets in his hair, behind his ears, inside his shirt, on his pants, the tips of his shoes, between the toes if he is barefooted at the time of his indulgence, and all over his cherubic little face. After I finish cleaning him off, it is on MY shirt, on MY pants, on My hair, on My nose…you get the picture.
My hubby cares for peanut butter cookies. He likes all kinds of cookies of course, but anything with peanuts lights up the boyish glint in his eyes. When I find the ones he likes, I treat it with reverence. No one else can have these but Daddy, I say to my angel who is reaching a crumb-encrusted hand into the paper sack.
Since my family cannot come upon a general consensus as to what kind of cookie we should bake, I grab my keys, head to the store, and buy the cookies instead. Less messes, less tantrums, less kitchen wares, equipments, and utensils to use. I smile as the cookies disappear under my nose. Nobody has to know that I don’t know how to cook.
Cookies, yes, we’re talking about cookies. My personal favorite is the snickerdoodle. My little girl adores chocolate chips, but then again, she is a chocoholic. Case in point: She once downed a couple’s portion of a dark chocolate cake all by herself. Mind you, I said dark. And chocolate bars that are 80% dark cocoa? Yes, she can eat those too. In a mouthful.
Now, my little boy—he can live without chocolate. He likes a bite here and there, but that is all. He is more of a sugar cookie connoisseur. Gooey frosting and all. With sprinkles, please. It gets in his hair, behind his ears, inside his shirt, on his pants, the tips of his shoes, between the toes if he is barefooted at the time of his indulgence, and all over his cherubic little face. After I finish cleaning him off, it is on MY shirt, on MY pants, on My hair, on My nose…you get the picture.
My hubby cares for peanut butter cookies. He likes all kinds of cookies of course, but anything with peanuts lights up the boyish glint in his eyes. When I find the ones he likes, I treat it with reverence. No one else can have these but Daddy, I say to my angel who is reaching a crumb-encrusted hand into the paper sack.
Since my family cannot come upon a general consensus as to what kind of cookie we should bake, I grab my keys, head to the store, and buy the cookies instead. Less messes, less tantrums, less kitchen wares, equipments, and utensils to use. I smile as the cookies disappear under my nose. Nobody has to know that I don’t know how to cook.
Who, me?
In real life, I am the mom you see dragging a wagon with two passengers—one, a chatterbox, the other, a demolition ball (who, at the moment, resembles a sweet, sticky, and cuddly boy pointing at the construction trucks nearby) as we walk our way to school. At first glance, I do not, in any way, embody kookiness or any of its affiliations. Of course this is my disguise. I slip among the normal beings, undetected and unnoticed in my dark denim wash, ballet flats, and chocolate cardigan. Very un-kooky. After all, I cannot risk my children’s social lives by appearing to be someone that all the other moms pretend to not see. Selfishness is not one of my virtues.
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