You Gotta Love Nuns

We took the kids to the natural history museum over the weekend, where they saw their first planetarium show.

The beginning of the presentation depicted a daytime sky. As soon as the sun appeared, the little J-dog dutifully shielded his eyes, even though we told him it was OK on account of it being a planetarium and all. He watched the rest of the show through a crack between his fingers.

It's a proud testament to my hyper-vigilant parenting style (DON'T LOOK AT THE SUN, KIDS! ARE YOU LOOKING? STOP LOOKING! YOU'LL BURN OUT YOUR EYEBALLS!), and it reminded me of the fifth grade, when a once-in-a-lifetime total solar eclipse occurred in our hemisphere.

It just so happened that this very special eclipse was even more spectacular if you happened to live, as I did at the time, in the deep south. In my little Catholic grade school, we spent many a science period preparing for the auspicious day by making shoe box solar eclipse viewers. I don't recall the exact details, but the shoe box solar eclipse viewer is a low-tech sciencey-type of contraption whereby you can indirectly view an eclipse without blinding yourself.

On the morning of the eclipse, the brothers Rama and I traipsed off to school brimming with excitement about the phenomenon we were to witness that day. The buzz in my classroom was reaching a fever pitch as we fifth graders tinkered with our viewfinders and prepared to file outside to witness the scientific marvel that was mere minutes away.

But it was short lived. Only moments later, our diminutive and roundly feared principal - Sister Patricia Ann - walked in. She pulled down all the blinds, confiscated our eclipse viewers and had us put our heads down on our desks for the duration.

We couldn't be trusted not to look straight at the sun. Someone was bound to burn their eyeballs out.

My mom experienced the eclipse standing in our backyard. She said it was the coolest thing: twilight at ten o'clock in the morning, even the birds were still.

And I guess I can see where Sister Patricia Ann was coming from, but I've never really forgiven her. I associate "eclipse" with the gluey smell of my fifth grade desktop, and I always wonder: has anyone actually burned their eyeballs out?

Maybe Next Year We'll Go On a Cruise

I spent this Boxing Day lying on the couch with a forearm draped across my forehead. Because Christmas beat me up again.



But at least I got some cute pictures.

If you celebrated Christmas, I hope yours was peaceful . . .

See you in a few!

Obstinate Toddler Snubs Foods with Co-Mingling Ingredients

J-Dog Rama, 2, has been refusing to eat vegetables and foods whose ingredients touch, reports his exasperated mother.

“I slave away in my new gourmet kitchen with the granite counter tops and the double oven I have no idea how to operate, to prepare him nutritious and delicious organic meals, and this is the thanks I get,” snorts Rima Rama.

“The other day, I presented him with an exquisite bowl of chicken and dumplings, made from scratch. I myself found them so appetizing that I had to refrain from inhaling a second helping, but the little J-dog pushed it away with great disdain saying, “I no eat dis, Mama, I no eat dis.”

If he is not offered more palatable fare, the J-Dog will often skip dinner altogether, preferring to derive what sustenance he can by scavenging rogue Cheerios and dried bits of Play-Doh off the kitchen floor, then break his fast in the morning with milk and a waffle.

“He will only eat things in the brown/beige color palette” reports Rima. “The only exception is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she continued, “But even then, he has specific requirements with regards to presentation.”

Reportedly, J-dog insists upon crustless triangles.

"And don't even think about trying some fool stunt, like blending spinach into his smoothie" warns Rama, adding "I'm looking at you, Jessica Seinfeld."

"That kid can sniff out vegetables faster than a hound on a blood trail. It’s enough to drive you totally (redacted) crazy” she said, shaking her head. "In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn't developed scurvy.”


"Whatchu talkin 'bout, Mama? I just ate some a dis here Play-Doh."

Hooked

There are two habits we cannot seem to break the little V-meister of:

1. Taping her artwork to every inch of wall space in the house.
2. Sucking her thumb.

We thought we might curb the interior decorating compulsion by cutting off her Scotch tape supply, so when the last roll ran out, she was told it would not be replaced. And all week she's been plotting, plotting, plotting ways to get her little hands on some of the sticky stuff.

The thumb addiction, however, is proving to be a real challenge.

The other night at bedtime the V-meister, whose been hard up for tape going on a week now, made the following suggestion:

"Daddy, maybe you could tape up my thumb? To help me stop sucking it?"

Now, you tell me, gentle reader: is the V-meister ready to kick the habit, or is she just jonesing for some Scotch tape?

Your guess is as good as mine.


V-Meister In Utero

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

A Lesson to Live By

"Do Not Knock the Coffee Cup off the Table"
written, bound, and illustrated by V-Meister Rama (with special assistance from P-Dawg Rama)


Mama's making coffee.


Mama drinks the coffee.


Mama puts the coffee on the table.


Do not knock it off.


Watch for the sequel, "You Break It, You Buy It," in stores December 2009. (20% off when purchased together with "You Smelt It, You Dealt It")

Also in this series:

• Don't Wipe that Booger with Your Sleeve (20% off when purchased with "And Don't Even Think About Putting It In Your Mouth")
  
  
• Don't Eat That Cheerio off the Ground
  
  
• You Are Going to Crack Your Head Open
  
  
• Just Get in the Car
  
  
• DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!
  
  
• Oh, My God, SPIT IT OUT!!!
  
  
• It's Always Funny 'Till Somebody Loses an Eye
  
  and
  
  
• I'll Give You Something to Cry About
  

L'Esprit de Noel*

You know what? Today I am feeling hopeful rather than overwhelmed about the holidays. If I don't get around to baking cookies or sending the "Rama Recorder" commemorative year-end edition out to family and friends by the 25th, well then so be it.

Alejna's post earlier this week made me re-evaluate my priorities and I also decided that it would be OK for the V-meister to occasionally be a tad late for school - possibly even with pigtails askew - in exchange for a pleasant and cheerful morning mother.

Also in the spirit of Christmas, I was the most benevolent motorist on the road today. There was a lady going fifteen miles per hour in front of me and yapping away on her cell phone, but I was all "Peace Out, Sistah!" before I revved up the engine and cut her off. And I'm not even going to tell you how many people I let in front of me on the lane merge. My good cheer was totally out of control.

What I do regret is introducing the J-Dog and V-Meister to the Chipmunks Christmas Song. Never underestimate the appeal of grown men singing under the influence of helium to a pre-school audience. Now I have to listen to those freaking chipmunks on an endless loop every time I get in the car. It's either that or endure the odious whining, and that IS enough to make me rear-end the dope smokin' dude going ten miles per hour.

And speaking of rodents, when the P-Dawg read my post about man-on-mole combat, he confided that what he'd really wanted to order was a "Mole Gassing System." Whereby you connect a hose from the exhaust pipe of your car to your target mole hole and exterminate the critter by means of noxious fumes. This is in direct opposition to L'Esprit de Noel.

To recap, then:

Things That Are in the Spirit of Christmas:

• Taming your inner morning beeotch
  
• Allowing your pre-schooler's dawdling to result in her being late for a school that she's not even legally required to attend
• Allowing your pre-schooler to leave the house with misaligned pigtails
• Letting motorists who are driving with their heads up their a$$es merge in front of you like it's going out of style
• Baking cookies only if you damn well please

Things That Are NOT in the Spirit of Christmas:

• Gassing the mole colony in your front yard
  

*If a French title doesn't add a certain je ne sais quoi to an otherwise humdrum post, then I don't know what does.

What's Up, Doc?

In my family, garden pest control is serious business.

My dad is a gentle soul by nature, but he keeps a professional grade slingshot always at the ready for his rabbit nemesis. You never know when that doggone rabbit is going to turn up in the garden, and the last thing you want to be is caught unprepared.

One time it showed up during a family Scrabble tournament and my dad forfeited the chance to score a triple word score using the letter "Q" for what he saw as his golden opportunity to take Bugsy down once and for all. One minute he's sitting at the dining room table, rubbing his palms together over his trophy prospects, and next thing you know, he's crouching behind a rhododendron bush out back.

I can't even tell you how many times I've popped in on him standing stock still by the back door with his slingshot poised to shoot, but as far as I know, the rabbit and all his progeny are still on the premises.

Then there's Uncle Vic, whose been fighting the chipmunk family in his backyard for going on ten years now. After trying every method known to man to rid his vegetable garden of the chipmunk contagion, my uncle finally resorted to smoking them out with fireworks. But those chipmunks are still partying it up under his lawn, and my uncle's got a deck of cards in his nightstand with a picture of their leader on the ace of spades.

With the arrival of the P-Dawg into the Rama clan, however, a new age dawned in the realm of man-on-rodent combat - the age of technology.

When we were first married and living in the hut, the P-Dawg and I discovered a skunk family living under our back porch. After placing several unanswered calls to our city's pest control department, my husband decided to take matters into his own twenty-first century hands. And that meant "internet research."

Luckily, I happened to walk into the computer room just as the P-Dawg, his index finger poised above the mouse button, was preparing to click "Confirm Order" on a batch of powdered fox urine.

Rimarama: "Tell me you are not ordering urine over the internet, P-Dawg."

P-Dawg: "Just hear me out, Rimster! According to the extensive internet research I've been doing, fox urine is the very last word in skunk control."

Rimarama: "Are you freakin' kidding me, P-Dawg? For all you know, some dude peed in a cup and you're about to send him $39.95 for it! I can't let you do this! Please step away from the computer now."

The skunks were eventually exterminated using more conventional means, but the P-Dawg's war on pestilence was just beginning.

I got a UPS shipment this afternoon. Hoping that my new flannel sheets had finally arrived, I tore the package open to find a load of these:



"The Pestacator": A solar powered, underground rodent repellent. The P-Dawg plans to use them to wage war on the mole colony in our front yard.

Let the games begin.