Archive - January 2009



OK, you all so didn’t warn me.  I thought we were friends.  Why didn’t you tell me how awful the movie “Ratatouille” is?  Yes, I knew what it was about – some disease infested rodent becoming a chef.  But it’s Disney, fer cryin’ out loud!  Surely they could turn that into something worthwhile?  And it takes place in Paris, so how can you go wrong?

I’ll tell you.

Hordes of pestilent rodents falling out of a poor old lady’s ceiling.

Swarms of disease laden rats tying up the health inspector and throwing him in the pantry, probably to later kill him and eat his liver.

A main character love child (“Mama, how come Gusteau didn’t know he had a son?”) who is bitten all over his chest by said rodents from hell.  Don’t the French have socialized medicine?  Yeah, good luck getting a rabies shot, monsieur.

Rats cooking. Thousands of them. Crawling all over the kitchen, the food, the pots, pans and utensils.  Oh sure, they washed their hands but they are RATS.  I don’t care if they were stuck in an autoclave, they are not going to be clean enough to prepare food.  They weren’t even wearing hairnets.

I could go on, but let’s just say that Pumpkin Girl and I will not be eating out for a very long time.


No doubt you’ve heard of the death of John Travolta’s son.  I won’t even bother to link to a story, it’s everywhere.  You know what I think is so sad, beyond the tragic loss of life?  The way this story is played out in the media.  All the details are being broadcast, from the desperate father’s plea for his son to wake up, to who is going to do the autopsy.  The EMT who responded to the call has done an interview and people are even speculating about whether the boy was allowed anti-seizure meds.

John Travolta is a big star, I know.  But can’t we leave these people alone?  Is the death of his teenage son newsworthy?  Yes.  Are all the agonizing details our right to know?  Absolutely not.

When Rebecca died, there was a standard investigation.  Philip and I gave separate, sworn statements.  They came to our home and took pictures.  Word spread quickly through our small community.  But none of it was published for the world to read and comment and pass judgement on.  Things that needed to stay private stayed private.

When a child dies, life is never the same.  Even the most ordinary things change, things you wouldn’t even think mattered.  I cannot imagine having this played out on a world stage.  I guess in some way, being a celebrity at a time like this might bring comfort – knowing that strangers care about you.  But there is just not enough money in the world that would make me want to share my grief with the world like that.  What the world knows is only what I’ve chosen to share.

I don’t know what my point is exactly.  I feel badly for John Travolta and Kelly Preston and their surviving daughter.  Such a long road stretches in front of them and the world gets to come along to watch.


I’ve been really busy this week – busy slacking, that is.  I had great plans, of course.  I always do.  I was going to clean up the Christmas explosion of toys, get the rest of the Cub Scout popcorn out of here, review our upcoming school year, and put all the wrapping paper away.

Yeah.  So, none of that happened.

Instead I stayed up way too late every night with Philip, watching Monarch of the Glen or playing Lego Indiana Jones.  Or both.  But not at the same time.  That resulted in me sleeping way too late every morning and it being around noon before I really got going.  And then you know, the children needed my help putting together their new Lego sets.

Oh, and we also took 5 children to Port Discovery (again!!) last weekend, then braved the 50 MPH winds to go to Mount Vernon on New Year’s Eve.  I had forgotten that they open the normallly closed attic during Christmastime and I wanted to see it.  Now we’ve seen the whole mansion from attic to basement. The attic has a phenominal view and a really cool copula and the room that Martha Washington moved into after George’s death.  I like Martha Washington.  She was short and she was married to an Army officer.  I bet she would have written a very interesting blog.

Alas, duty calls.  Unlike Martha, all the actual household duties fall to me so my time as slacker mom is over.  It was fun while it lasted.

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