"games, must we?"

I’ve been working my way through Hitchcock films and have decided I want to live in a Hitchcockian universe. Especially delicious was my recent viewing of Dial M For Murder. Ray Milland!* I loved him so very much as a villain, maybe more than I’ve liked any villain. (– note, all trailers are a bit spoiler-ish and I wouldn’t watch them if you haven’t already seen the films):

Dial M was recommended by a moviephile I met after I told him I’d recently viewed – and re-viewed, and loved – North by Northwest (below trailer is a re-vamp on movie trailer styling, me likey):

Up next for me (I’ve already seen it, but want to again):

I just want to live in a world where, say, I’m recovering from gallavanting around on clandestine capers and I have beautiful slacks and shirts and patent leather shoes delivered to me in boxes and I whip them on and slip out the window to catch a cab and rescue my love and not only that, but later on I’ve had the foresight such that I can pull out of my impeccable pockets not only a matchbook and handkerchief with my monogram but also a tiny, useful pencil for dispatching secret messages in a pinch. And yeah, I’m Cary Grant. But also somehow, I get to make out with Cary Grant too. Look, it all works in my mind, see?

* And, um, OMG. I like Ray Milland, and I like Rosey Grier, and until now I had no idea they put their considerable combined prowess together for:

Words simply cannot express.

the great toe mashup of ought-six

I’ve been biting my lip trying not to laugh at things my kids say because they are just so serious when they say them but it is also so funny.

First there’s this afternoon as my daughter and I walk to join Nels and Ralph in their photo-shoot at our downtown favorite deli / eatery (Ralph’s working on some new menus et cetera for the proprietor).

“Oh man! I forgot to put Harris’ ass outside,” I exclaim, deliberately using bad language because Sophie loves when I talk that way about the cat.

But she’s having no playful banter in this case: “The point is, it’s not our fault. It’s Harris’ fault,” she says in clipped, decisive tones. “He should have gone outside when we opened the door.”

“The point is …” ?! Who talks like that in this house?

Then tonight as my son runs through the living room top speed with my quilting ruler (look, there was some reason he was doing this – none of us knows what it was) and suddenly the ruler, only three inches shorter than he, stutters on the ground and scrapes the top of his foot. And he cries. Then he sees some of his skin is gone and he really cries. I mean Nels hardly ever lets life get the best of him; he’s either belligerent, angry, or whining but in this case he’s actually afraid. His chin lowers and trembles and everything. Ralph is trying to explain to Nels his skin will grow back; patting Nels tenderly on his tiny, bandaged toe.

Sophie steps in: “Nels,” she says sagely, “When I lost my toe…”* she goes on reassuringly, with all the veteran wisdom of like, some kind of grizzled old Marine telling combat stories.

Ah yes. Belly up to the bar, young ‘un – Ole Stumpy can regale ye with thrilling tales.

virillius maximus

I forgot to mention, Ralph won the toga contest last night. There were around thirty entrants! The toga itself was made absolutely last minute: I (genius-like) tore a queen-size sheet in half and stitched the short ends together to create the length needed. Each contestant was interviewed onstage and then “runway’d” down the stage to show off.

Beside him you see the female counterpart who tied him for first. She’s doing the “looking good” version of the toga; Ralph had a different take since he not only cracked wise (the contestants interviewed prior to Ralph claimed spending a mere five or ten minutes on the toga… when asked Ralph cocked his head in mock seriousness and said, “Seven… seven or eight hours?”) but he also pointed to his bare nipple during the clap-off to garner more applause.

Yeah, so. I didn’t really marry an introvert or anything.


A pamphlet was delivered to us for an upcoming religious gathering: a smiling, Aryan Jesus holds his hand up in invitation, his arm draped with a poncho and his coif softly curling. My husband, without a word, cut out a talk-bubble and applied it – “Who’s up for some Ultimate Frisbee?” The Son of Man congenially asks – then put it on the fridge where I saw it an hour or so later and spluttered laughter (Ralph went to Evergreen).

Last night I bathed with both my children. My aching body found comfort in the hot, hot water. Sophie sat behind me and poured water on my back, unasked but so appreciated by me. After a few minutes she said, “Let’s lay back,” which is exactly what I wanted. I held her and we whispered. She got out and into a towel; Nels arrived next. I smelled his salty skin and his hair – I simply can’t describe how good his hair smells to me. His little strong body is the brownest of all of us. I hold and kiss him and think it’s remarkable how my children allow me to fuss over and touch them – sometimes they enjoy it, leaning in and reciprocating, but often they don’t even notice. I thought, how nice for us all that we touch this much.

I told my son, “Nels, you were born in water.” He said, “This feels good,” and smiled. Sometimes I simply can’t believe I’m allowed to spend time with them in my life. I cherish and love almost every minute.