Too bad it doesn't come in bacon

This was sent to me by Bitter Young Guy at work. Soap shaped like an iPhone that smells like grilled sausages.

More soap shaped like beakers and test tubes...

Sushi soap (wasabai scented!)

Taco soap (chipotle salsa-scented)

And lots more. iPods, green eggs and ham, a Palm Pre (bourbon and coke scented), snack foods of all kinds ...

And no, FCC, this vendor wouldn't be able to pick me out of police line-up, so there.

Complete Time Suck

How good is your eye? Should you have been an engineer, or would you have been better majoring in Russian Lit? Read the directions first to see how it's scored. You time does not contribute you your score, but it is recorded so you can see if you can beat your previous score *and* time.



The Eyeball Game

It's really, really addictive.

When I complain about hot weather events ...

... this is why.

I thought I'd take advantage of the full-length mirror in my hotel room this weekend to show you the minimum of what I wear to 18th century events.

First layer, the one against the skin is the shift. Made of linen, it hangs down to about mid shin. Underneath the shift are stockings, garters and shoes. On top of the shift are the stays. The term "corset" isn't used until later. My stays are only partially boned, lace up the front and the back, and haven't been finished -- there isn't any binding around the edges yet. Which is good as I seem to have to keep taking them in. I've also put my hair up, and have covered it with a white linen cap.

Here, I've added my under-petticoat (you'd just call it a skirt), a pair of pockets, and a neck handkerchief to fill in the neckline and protect my skin from the sun. For a formal event, my clothes would be nicer, the neckline a tad lower and much more exposed if indoors. The pockets are a separate item, and are not sewn into each petticoat.

Here is my second petticoat and my bum roll. Technically, the bum roll should be under this petticoat, but if I did that, the petticoat hem would ride up in back. When I'm fully dressed, this won't show, so shhhh, don't tell, okay?

Now I've added my work gown with the back looped up a la polonaise, and a work apron that is tucked up behind. The ideal figure at this time was a cone, topped by an inverted cone. Or to look at it another way -- the bigger I make my hips look, the smaller my waist looks. I then take what looks like a giant 14" long tongue depressor called a busk, and slide it down the front of my stays to give me a nice straight front line. (Remember that cone shape.) The busk is one reason you see women in 18th century portraits sitting with their knees apart. Trust me on this.
I'd then add a shallow-crowned straw hat tipped forward over my forehead a bit, or a black silk bonnet, depending on the weather.

And this is why I get a little cranky when the temperature tops 100 degrees.

Marketing Fail

Sweet Daughter and I traveled to Yorktown this weekend for our last event of the season. As a treat for ourselves, we stayed at a “mid-level” hotel with an indoor swimming pool. While checking in, I noticed a table at right angles to the check-in area with some brochures on it, and a gentleman talking to a couple.

After successfully checking in, SD and I turned to grab a luggage cart, and go get all of our stuff out of the car. The gentleman with the brochures jumped up, came around from behind his table, stood in front of me, and asked if I was traveling alone.

I thought, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot??” The desk clerk had done a great job not specifically mentioning what room, or even floor I was in/on, but told me where to park, what staircase to use, and handed me my key envelope upside down so nobody could see the room number written on it. Why was this guy asking me this question in a crowded lobby?

He asked again, “Is your husband traveling with you, or are you traveling alone with your daughter?”

This guy was not some roly-poly, unassuming type of guy. He probably had 6” in height on me, an athletic build, and had a rather aggressive manner.

I surprised myself a bit, and didn’t back down. “THAT’s a little bit creepy” I said just as aggressively. Somehow, I must have offended his inner salesman.*

“That’s not creepy!” he retorted.

“Are you traveling alooooooooooone? Just you and your daughter?? Yeah. THAT’S JUST A LITTLE BIT CREEPY!” I stated emphatically. I comforted myself as I pushed past him with the fact that I had 49 rounds of defensive ammunition with me.

And I thought of Breda and her comment:

“Women often can't tell the difference between being polite and being submissive. We believe we have to be accommodating to perfect strangers.”

And I was happy that while I was raised with that mindset, I seem to have gotten over it.



*I'm prety sure he was selling timeshares. And I think I need to contact the hotel to find out what company he was with and rat him out.

Pumpkin picking, part 2

So, let me back up a little bit.

When I went to sign in at the school office so I could play “chaperone”, it was a few minutes before 9:00 a.m. I wasn’t paying attention to the background noise as I was trying to navigate my way through the “Why are you here?” questionnaire when the office staff suddenly stopped what there were doing, stood up, faced the corner where there was an American flag, and placed their hands over their hearts. The voice over the speaker led the school in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance! And only one of the parents needed a pointed look to join in. And then there was a rather long “Moment of Silence” following the Pledge, AND there was a sign that said “In God We Trust. Our National Motto”. I was tickled pink!

Okay. Back to the pumpkin patch.

Sweet Daughter had gone off at as near a dead run as she can manage while navigating the vines, and leaping the trenches between the raised beds.

"I'm looking for the perfect pumpkin!"

  

"Maybe this one? No."

  

While SD is carefully examing about one in every ten pumpkins in the field, the rest of the four busloads of kids all grab a pumpkin and call it a day.

FINALLY. The perfect round pumpkin.

Or not.

Finally, as the tractor returned to take us all back up the hill so we could eat lunch, an acceptable pumpkin was found. It followed the parameters that the child had to be able to carry it without help, and it had to fit in their backpack.

"It's okay, Momma. I've got it."

"Does it fit in your backpack?"

"Yes."

So, all is well and good. We cram ourselves back onto the wagons (this having the advantage of being so snug that nobody could have fallen off if they had tried), ride back to the picnic area, and disembark. Now, Sweet Daughter likes to jump off of things. Curbs, steps, you name it. See where this is going? I missed the jumping part, but I saw her on her back, looking surprised with her legs waving in the air as the weight of the pumpkin in her backpack pulled her off balance. She was fine, I laughed, and the other parents looked at me funny.

After they ate lunch, the kids got to go play. Since I wasn't riding back on the bus but was driving directly back to work, I went up to the teacher and told her I was leaving, and to thank her for letting me come along.

When I left, all the kids I'd had lunch with were breathing, and none were bleeding. I considered the day a success.

Pumpkin picking, part 1

Today I volunteered to accompany Sweet Daughter’s kindergarten class field trip to a local pick-your-own farm.

They learned about different varieties of apples.

They sang songs.

They learned about how pumpkins grow.

And then the part they were all waiting for … the pumpkin patch!

The tractor pulled two wagons crammed with students and chaperones.

They have a goats in a pasture, complete with a "goat walk" up over the road.You can buy a handful of corn, put it in a cup, and run it up to a platform using a pulley system.

“I'm a model you know what I mean

And I do my little turn on the goatwalk

Yeah on the goatwalk on the goatwalk yeah

I do my little turn on the goatwalk”

And then ... we reach the pumpkins.

I'm unable to upload any more pictures to this post for some reason, and I've got to finish up the 2 dozen scones I'm baking, and the turkey breast I'm roasting for the weekend, so the search for the greatest pumpkim will commence tomorrow.

And your point is?

Last Saturday evening in Williamsburg, while a group of us were waiting for dinner (the site fed us on Saturday night!), Sweet Daughter was squirreling around. When she’s tired, she doesn’t get cranky, she doesn’t melt down, she doesn’t suddenly fall asleep, she turns into what we call “shark baby”. As long as she doesn’t stop moving, she figures she won’t miss anything.

She was very close to falling down and going “blammo” several times, so I finally told her “Listen. I don’t have the spray-on Neosporin (the magical topical elixir of life, as far as she is concerned) with me. If you fall down, you’re just going to have to sit there and bleed until I’m done eating and we can walk back to camp.”

And the comment from the peanut gallery? “Wow. That’s Mother-of-the-Year material right there!”

Harumph!