Rest In Peace John Hughes.

I can pinpoint the moment that I became a junk store junkie.

It was while watching Pretty in Pink starring Molly Ringwald, Jon Cryer and Andrew McCarthy.



Andie had the most awesome crazy sense of style. Any scene that involved her clothes had me enthralled. She made used clothes cool, could take a few mismatched pieces and create an outfit that made the mall girls look pathetic. I started going to thrift stores after watching this movie and even wore an old 1950's prom dress to my Junior Ring Dance.

I wanted to be Andie.

I wanted to be her and run off with Ducky while the Psychedelic Furs played in the background.

I grew up in New Jersey and felt so out of place all the time. The high school I went to was very status conscious and while my family certainly wasn't poor, they were originally from New Hampshire which meant that they had a strong sense of yankee thrift. My clothes were never the right brand, my hair wasn't big and I liked weird music. I was a misfit, at least in my own head.

And then John Hughes wrote this character. I felt like he was peeking into my life. It was his gift to create teenage characters who were as awkward and miserable as real teenagers. Even better, he turned the misfits into the cool kids and his characters made me feel visible, relevant and well, cool.

He died today at the age of 59.

Thank you John, for telling the truth, showing us love and making us laugh.

My dog and her talent.

This is Sophie.


She is a pug.

She has a small brain.

She does have a unique talent.

She is a canine pez dispenser.

Sophie, bless her sweet heart, eats everything.

Right now she's trying to eat a tissue box. She's only trying to eat the box because she can't find any actual tissues to eat.

She really likes to eat ear plugs. And legos.

You know what happens when these things get eaten don't you?

Her anus becomes a lego dispenser. One morning she pooped eight legos.

I've seen barbie shoes, pencil erasures and craft beads all come out of this dog's butt.

She doesn't seem to make the connection between eating a wad of tissue and then having to have partially digested tissue pulled out of her rectum.

She does not suffer from dignity and as her owner, neither do I.

The most potentially embarassing thing I have ever posted on the internet.

David arrived home late last night and it feels like the missing piece of our puzzle is in place.

Meeting David 13 years ago was like finally finding a long lost friend.

I remember in those first weeks of falling in love with him feeling almost outraged.

"Where have you been? I have been waiting all this time for you!"

And I had been.

Internet, I will be posting a poem. Not just any poem, but a mushy gushy love poem.

I wrote this poem after a few months of dating David. Can you call it dating when you instantly know that you have found your person? I don't know.

Try not to laugh, okay?

A Poem for D.
(To repay a spring of faithful irises)

The harlot morning coffee
sings to me,
beckoning warm
with soft siren
wisps of steam
curling to my nose.
My bagel sighs
feeling foolish,
so elegantly dressed
in the smooth white layers
of cream cheese,
which I ignore.
This nose,
pink taste buds,
fingertips
(and fingertoes)
moss brown irises
and
too small ears,
swear complete
allegiance,
finding only you
at every turn.
In the cupboard,
behind the worn steel pots
each reflecting
your eyes
and yellowred beard.
The downy fuzz
of summers first peach
and the sweet hungry juice
at the corners of my mouth
are your kiss.
In the corner,
where the small
grey she-spider
whispered your name-
Even the blinking eyed cat
breathes your voice
in fluffs of soft orange purr.
I burst with youness.
There’s nothing that I can do.
I am sick with it.
You are so within me,
Cradled on my eyelashes,
glowing warm magenta
in my belly.

I have been swallowed,
sick and delirious
every beating red cell
dancing to your pulse-
Pushing
Pulling
Towards you.

Be gentle with this small beating thing
that was yours in the blink of an eye.


The reason that I am sharing this bit of my soul, my soul people, is that I have missed him so much, and not just because of the dead bird situation, though that was significant.

I admit that the first few days that David is away are always nice. We eat a dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and apple slices at 5:00 and everyone is tucked in bed by 8:30.

After a few days though, the house is all out of balance. We need his exuberance and his maleness. We need our guy home and now that he is all is perfect.

My philosophy of stuff, why I am not a hoarder and awesome use for puff pastry!

Today I spent the morning changing sheets, doing a major crap purge in Rebecca's room and a minor crap purge in Lily's room.

What's a crap purge?

It's when I go into my children's rooms when they are at camp with a big black garbage bag. I then throw away all of the miscellaneous "stuff" that the children have felt it necessary to hoard but will in no way miss once I throw it away.

This stuff includes, but is not limited to: any and all packaging, bubblegum wrappers, dried up markers, crumbled up papers, rocks, straws, pencil points, crayon shavings and general detritus.

You may think they get the hoarding urge from me. Au contraire! I am a ruthless purger. If I no longer use something or care for it I either chuck it, donate it or sell it. I very rarely regret getting rid of something and I appreciate the impermanence of stuff.

There is one thing, or rather one group of things that I do refuse to part with. In the attic of David's office are about 12 antique doors, including a dutch door. They came with the house and I cannot bear to part with them. I keep toying with the idea of installing the dutch door in my kitchen back door. Maybe I'll add that to my ongoing list of crazy projects.

Here's my philosophy of stuff:

People are important.

Stuff is nice to have and enhances my home, but the people in my home are what I can't live without. At my house we don't get upset when the inevitable happens. Messes are made, things break, love endures.

The point of all this is that I was a hard working housewife today. So hardworking that I even found a use for the puff pastry. (Michael, I loved your menu ideas! If it were just David and me eating we'd be all set, but the children bring some culinary challenges to the table.)

I found this recipe for making chocolate croissants and dear god it is so easy!

Shiny Red Oh My God They Are So Easy Chocolate Croissants

1 large thick bar of good quality chocolate chopped into 1/2 inch chunks. Do not skimp!
1 package of puff pastry
1 egg beaten

Heat oven to 350 degrees.
Let puff pastry thaw at room temperature for about 15 minutes.
Line baking sheet with parchment paper.
Cut pastry sheet into four squares.
Sprinkle about 2 tablespoons of chocolate on each square.
Fold pasty into a triangle, trapping the chocolate in pastry puff goodness.
Brush pastry with egg.
Bake for about 20 minutes.

While they are baking make a pot of good french roast coffee.

Once they are browned and puffed, take them out and eat while drinking the coffee.

Your faith in the world will be restored.

Even I think I'm boring.

People, I am such a housewife.

Really.

Here's today's Housewife Update:

1. Eating through the freezer. Almost empty! Down to three pieces of salmon, a package of gnocchi's, some asparagus risotto, and puff pastry.

And ice cream. Because I replenish the ice cream. A woman has needs.

When I went grocery shopping today I bought fruit, vegetables and bread.

And cinnamon buns. I was hungry and had a weak moment.

My plan is to try to make a menu and stick to it instead of just wandering around the store and filling my cart with whatever appeals to my sense of PMS at that moment.

2. Crazy Project #1. Working on the house facade that I bought last week after my harrowing adventure with the dead bird. Today I started scraping off the fake snow and made a colossal mess.

3. Crazy Project #2. Transforming Rebecca's old room darkening shades with the lavender toile fabric into room darkening shades with a black and gray floral fabric design for my room. I will be using the glue gun. God help me.

4. Must tidy basement. So, so shameful.

That's all I've got for you today. A laundry list of extreme lameness. Will try to reduce the boring tomorrow.

C'est la merde? Oui, c'est la merde!

My family is french canadian which means absolutely nothing to you unless you also happen to be french canadian. Careful observation of my people revealed our most significant cultural traits:

1. A love of butter.
2. Deep dark sarcasm.
3. Generally emotionally stunted.
4. A love of strong tea.
5. Very, very funny.

This brings me to this woman.


This is my Memere with my mother.

Like most of the french canadians of her age, my Memere's first language was french. She learned english as an adult when her children went to school. My memories of my grandparents are filled with the unique version of french spoken loudly in much of New Hampshire fifty years ago. My Memere was what we affectionately call "a piece of work". She was very funny and often a bit, well, saucy.

Once she left me a voice mail that said, "God damn it all to hell!"

She wasn't fond of answering machines.

There is one story that she told my mother and my mother then told me.

My Memere went to visit a friend who was not a tidy housekeeper. It was actually said that her house was a complete pig sty. Utterly filthy. I digress.

The way the story goes is that this friend sat all day chain smoking and drinking tea. Being a polite hostess she offered my memere some tea. As this friend went to the kettle to boil some water she noticed something dark on the floor. She bent over and looked at it.

"C'est la merde?" Is it shit, she asked?

She stuck a yellow nicotine stained finger into the pile and sniffed it.

"Oui, c'est la merde!" Yes, it is shit!

For some reason this phrase has stuck with me and this morning when Rebecca woke me to tell me that the dog's crate was full of diarrhea I was grateful that my cultural heritage has given me this most perfect turn of phrase, this gift for perfectly summing up the situation.

I went downstairs, still groggy and looked in the crate.

Is it shit?

Yes, it is shit.

The portrait of Lily as a young writer...

This year in 1st grade Lily learned many things. One of the things that her class did was write a paper every Monday morning describing the events of their weekend.

The focus was not on spelling, but on getting them excited to write.

Lily wrote this story in late September of last year.



Here's the translation. "This weekend I had a bump on my butt. My mom had to squeeze my butt. Out came pus. I cried a lot and a lot and a lot."

Lily had a very bad abscess. It required, well, draining. Notice the green in the picture? It's pus. I am so proud.

Lily has never been afraid to express herself.

This is the first real note she ever wrote to me.


Translation: "Dear Mom, You're awful. I hate you."

I love that one. She was so mad when she wrote it, just saying the words weren't enough. Luckily, I am not easily wounded.



This one starts out well. "This weekend I slept late. My mom woke me up. Bradley came over. We talked and played and then..."



Here's where it all starts to go downhill. "My sister and I rode bikes. We went to the park. I rode and got out of control and I crashed into the fence. I got stitches. I had the worst weekend ever!"

Such a flair for describing drama.

Here's one without tragedy.


"What Would You Do With a Pot of Gold?"

"I will get a TV. I would buy 9 teddy bears and 10 cupcakes and 100 pugs and chew toys."

Thank god she thought to include the chew toys. Such a practical girl.

She just thrills me pretty much with every breath she takes. She is a weird kid, but she is very much my weird kid.