conflicted

I was watching the news tonight, as I'm sure many of you were, waiting to hear President Obama declare Osama bin Laden's death.  I listened to the diplomatic analysis, the future safety of Americans analysis, the what-the-Pakistanis-think analysis, and I was surprised that I didn't feel a little more excited.  

Because really, bin Laden was a murderous bastard and shouldn't I be glad, at least a little bit, that he is dead?  

Miss O came downstairs, because nothing says "I don't respect your boundaries for bedtime" like nineteen trips down the stairs to fetch nineteen different things, but I digress.  She wrinkled her nose and asked what was on the television. 

There was a terrorist, a man who crashed four airplanes into buildings, because he wanted to hurt people...

Mom, I know what a terrorist is.

It was kind of like a punch in the stomach.  I know my short people are superty smart, and I shouldn't be surprised that she knows what a terrorist is.  We don't watch the news, we don't discuss war or murderous bastards or related subjects.  I try to keep that stuff off my people's radars.  (People's radar??? Where are the grammar police when I need them!)

We talked about the events of 11 September, 2001; I told her about the planes and the people who died.  I told her about the heroic efforts of the passengers of Flight 93 who prevented more death and destruction by giving their own lives.  I told her that bin Laden was proud of what he had orchestrated that day, and that he boldly took ownership of the carnage.

He pretty much had it coming, huh, mama?

Yep, kid, he sure did.

And yet I wonder: does anybody really feel better now that he's dead?  Or are victims' families going to wake up tomorrow and find that the news of his death leaves them with an odd sort of emptiness?  Their loved ones are still dead.  Al Qaeda is still there; al Quaeda still hates everybody.  

There is no safety that comes from this murder, justified as it may have been, and I say may have been justified because in my deepest spirit, I am not entirely sure where I stand on the issue.  My instincts hate that we kill people.  I hate the execution in the same way I hate the reason for the execution, and I cannot compare the costs of either.

My kid knows about terrorists.  I hate that most of all.

sometimes i just really want people to listen to me.

When I take you to Target because we are out of toilet paper and heavy cream, and you run, literally run, around and scream... literally scream at the top of your voice?  And I tell you to stop doing that?  

Right then.  That's when I want you to listen.

When you are beatboxing for the sake of annoying the living shit out of every blood relation you have?  And whapping your foot against the couch, all percussive and whatnot?  And I ask you to please stop?

Right then.  Another example of a good time to listen to me.

And when we get three new grown-up chickens, and you watch me put them in the chicken pen with the other three grown-up chickens, and I say, Now people, these chickens are really stupid and don't know that this is their home, and if you let them out they will run away and we will have to go find them IF THE NEIGHBOR'S DOG DOESN'T EAT THEM FIRST?

Well, my dearest darling shortest people, that is another good time to listen to me.  Because collecting wet, frightened hens in the middle of a thunderstorm is not my idea of a good time.  Climbing in a tiny dog-house-igloo-thingy to fetch an angry, wet, frightened hen with a superty sharp beak?  ALSO NOT MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME.  And holding said angry, wet, frightened hen with my left arm whilst picking up another wet, frightened hen with my right arm, and then being pecked WITHOUT MERCY by the Left Arm Hen?  

Turns out you were listening at that very moment.  Because three pairs of wide eyes stared with shock as I called Left Arm Hen a mother$ucker.

Moral of the story:  You should listen the first time. 

i can't make this stuff up. honest.

I sew things.  It is superty fun for me.  Except lately, I haven't been sewing things because I have sewing machines that don't work.  Yes, machines.  What?  You have, umm, two, uh, coffee mugs, right?

Don't listen to me.  I don't know what I'm talking about.  

Sew.

I took my plural machines to the fancy-pants sewing center to get them repaired and tuned up.  AND THEY LAUGHED AT ME.  Because my plural machines are just that crappy, that's why.  

But then, the Owner Herself, the Sewing Machine Madame, took me by the hand and walked me over to the Gallery of Sewing Machine P*rn and showed me things I had never seen before and excited me in a way that I did not know was possible.  I tried to work the poker face.  I tried hard to look Totally Bored and Not At All Impressed In Any Way. 

And then I put a deposit down on Sewing Machine P*rn of my very own.  It could also have been considered a deposit on repairs for my plural pieces of crap machines.  Either way.  Just in case.  Ahem.

Because my plural pieces of crap machines are not yet repaired (and believe me, I'm using the term 'machines' VERY LOOSELY here), I borrowed some R-Rated Sewing Machine P*rn from someone who trusts me with their P*rn collection.

And I broke the needle-threader-thingy in five minutes.  Because I'm COMPLETELY AWESOME.

But tonight, I took awesome to a wholenother level.

I shattered a needle.  Don't ask me how, I'm just so awesome I can't even describe it.  Except to tell you that one piece of the needle was planted firmly between my front bottom teeth, and another piece was embedded in my tongue.  As in NEEDED TWEEZERS TO YANK IT OUT.  And for extra beauty?  I think I swallowed a piece.

Hi, I'm Pamela, and I have a sewing machine problem.

listen up, people.

Backstory:

I read Steph's blog and from there started reading Love's blog.  Love and her mister adopted their son from Uganda, and are in the process of adopting two more sons.  On her last trip to Uganda, Love spent some time at a children's prison.  Yes, prison.  Where these little people are incarcerated for LIFE.  You can read more about the horrible conditions here.

Sixty Feet is a not-for-profit organization that works to better the lives of these imprisoned children.  They provide medical treatment, food, clean water,  and other things that we take for granted.

So.

WE'RE HAVING A CUPCAKE SALE, PEOPLE! 

Saturday, April 16, is the National Cupcake Sale to raise money for Sixty Feet.  The Dayton Time crew is the only cupcake sale in the state of New York, and we want to make a big impression.  

I need your help.  I need to make you cupcakes, and I need you to open up your wallets, bust out your credit cards, log in to your paypal accounts, or shake down your sofas. 

Here's how it works:   You donate to Sixty Feet, and I send you a dozen cupcakes.  Simple, no?  We're making chocolate, yellow, carrot, spice and red velvet cupcakes.  Frosting choices are chocolate, buttercream, or cream cheese.  I have a team of people ready to bake and frost and sprinkle and package, so make us work!

Now.  If you donate to Sixty Feet and don't actually want any cupcakes, I will donate $5 to Sixty Feet for every dozen cupcakes I don't have to make and ship.  Everybody still wins. 

Orders? Questions?  Comment away, or email me at thedaytontime at gmaildotcom.

For more information, visit:

Sixty Feet on the effbooks

Cupcake Kids on the effbooks

sunday funday

i got us to the church on time, even a bit early.  was a dreadful substitute for our regular pianist... not sure if the ill-timed dozing or the poor performance was worse.  probably the dozing.  fortunately, i wasn't the only one.  tee hee.

grape-nuts for lunch and a scrumptious nap on my favorite red sofa under a mound of quilts and with a sweet henry-boy tucked in alongside me. only one cup of coffee, no thanks at all to the 15 ulcers in my belly, but it was still lovely.

raked, picked-up-sticks, weeded and mulched the rhubarb.

pb&j for dinner, with a side of rhubarb sauce and peaches from the pantry.  hip-hopped to the playground and stayed until my toes were freezing and the last bit of daylight left the sky.  was very pleased with myself for stashing the woven wrap in the basket of our stroller because wearing elliott home really helped me stay warm. 

popcorn for a bedtime snack.

tucked the short people into bed, breathing the smell of spring in their hair.

packed for tomorrow's visit to see our besties,

ran a load of jeans and socks through the washer and dryer

and off to bed.

six plus zero

happy friday