Granddaughters at Costco

Today I took my four year-old granddaughter to Costco (TWO DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING?! DEAR LORD, WHY?!)

Anyway.  She did better than I did.  I'm not a fan of the Costco.  Too much!  Too big!  My brain shuts down in response to the size of it all.   But that's not the point.  The point is that my granddaughter had a great time, especially in the checkout line when she started singing at the top of her lungs, "BUTTS!  BUTTS!  BUTTS!  BUTTS!"

Then she would look at me and say, "That's a real song, Tutu."

Then she would sing some more of that real song.  BUTTS!  BUTTS!  BUTTS!  BUTTS!

Now here's the worst part.  I've been singing BUTTS!  BUTTS!  BUTTS!  all day long now, too.

Recipes and so forth

This week's column just went up.  It was inspired on my morning walk when Sally and Nancy recalled that day many, many, many years ago when Nancy wouldn't share her mother's chocolate ribbon cake with Sally in spite of the fact that they're best friends.

Nancy shares now.

A realization about the way the universe does and does not operate

So I have these super old pajama bottoms with a stretched out waist, and whenever I put them on I say, "Dude.  I need some new pajama bottoms."

This morning as I was chasing the puppy, aka "The Charming Terrorist," down the stairs, my pajama bottoms fell off and wound up as a puddle of pajama fabric around my ankles.  And it was in that moment I realized that it (apparently) is NOT enough to float your desire to have new pajama bottoms out there.  The universe will not stop what it's doing and magically bring a pair to your house.

You have to go to a store and buy them for yourself.

A possible answer

When I asked my son what term I should be using now instead of Native American he said that tribal affiliation is preferred.  I have no idea if this is correct.

Meanwhile, I've had one of those days where if I'd dropped my toast, I would have dropped it buttered-side down.  I was just off.  When I went out for my walk this morning, I switched into story-telling mode, but halfway through my narrative I realized there was no there there.  No punchline.

Gah.  Not a fan of days like these!

Political correctness

So I try to keep up on these things, but sometimes I'm surprised.  Like when I wrote this column I used the term "Native American" at first, but then my smartypants son told me that term is now politically incorrect.

Moments like these help me to understand why my parents, who are in their 80s, will occasionally still say words like "deformed."  I'm guessing that one isn't very politically correct, is it?  But this is how they refer to their poodle's back leg.  Their poodle, they say, was supposed to be a show dog, except he has a "deformed" back leg.  So now he's only 3/4s of a show dog.

I love that 3/4s of a show dog lives in my parents' house.

Dear My Blog

Dear My Blog,

How did this happen?  How did I let you turn into the houseplant that you put in the corner and then forget to water so that it shrivels up and dies, except before dying it makes you feel guilty and like a really bad person for letting something that was once green and full of hope turn into this yellow brittle almost-dead thing sitting in a cheap pot?

I'm sorry.  You didn't deserve my inattention.

Here's what happened, I think.

I had an exhausting summer.  And then I took on a few new obligations which I am excited about--working regular shifts at The King's English, for example--but suddenly I just felt busier and a little bit crazed and things sort of went by the wayside.  Like laundry.  And you.

However, I now feel more able to manage.  I won't replace you with another houseplant.  I'll just do my best to revive you.

Best wishes,

Ann Cannon