I have ( I am hoping) disabled that RSS thing. Oh, it was no big whoopy, just a lot of little things and the larger implications of the whole idea which led me to do so ( I hope).

My initial reaction wasn’t even the one that I mentioned earlier , of finding it rude. A quick- I admit- perusal of the site shows that the aggregator contains most of the content, and was following about 5 – 6 blogs, of which mine was one. My first concern was that I am already an invited member of a group blog which covers whatever aspects I chose to share – there- about living in the Netherlands. You know, Lost in Transit.

I found myself, during the day, flipping over there- were there gaudy ads ( no), but still, there could be. I noticed posts that I had deleted in their archives and realized that while my content is being used, I have no control over it.

Someone else who discovered that they were also now delivering content to this community expressed the opinion that hey, it was publicity. Well, sure it is. But maybe when it’s so close to home, I want stats on it so I can see just how close to home it is. Maybe I just don’t want that kind of publicity.

I went along with RSS as a means to make it easier for people to see if I had updated. It was never meant to be a method in which each and everything I wrote would be published at someone else’s site. Sure, I received a nice link every time, but I would rather that it’s more difficult for people to lift my tripe. Cut, paste and simply steal it. ( Oh, did I mention that today I replaced my timid Jack and Rose photo with a stomach-churning close-up of what gonnerea does to one’s dick, re: that hot- linker at the tweakers forum? )

And, you know, they just really should have asked me first. Because of LOT, I probably would have declined, but still, it sticks in my craw.

This is a test.

I repeat, this is only a test.

Hmm, it seems that everything I put up here is also appearing there.

What do you know.

Not too sure what I- in my Ms. Manners mode- think of this.

The idea of going into The Boy’s room , of sitting on his bed and gazing out of his window as I held the tattered dreadlocks of Stinky up to my right cheek, caught my fancy today. Such a Walton moment.

{ Olivia gazed out of the window in John Boy’s room, Stinky an untidy ball in her right hand, cradled against her right cheek. She didn’t notice the overcast sky outside, her mind was filled with the aroma of Stinky- of John Boy- and the sure knowledge that one day it wouldn’t be for a mere four days. No, as sure as the sun rises each morning, one day John Boy would leave forever. Oh, he and that buxom girl from Idaho might stop by on holidays, but one day, as sure as the sun rises each morning, coming in to make John Boy’s bed would – eventually- cease to be a part of her daily routine. One day, John Boy would be gone forever.}

But I let that opportunity slip right on by. After all, such behavior- on grounds of the infamous pot/ kettle rules- would ban me from harboring my hidden Mummy Dearest thoughts, which often accuse him of pulling gargoyle faces and being a wee tad melodramatic. All right, flat out melodramatic, Mildred Pierce dramatic, even – perhaps, at times- up there with Stella Dallas dramatic.

But I do miss the lad. I notice that I have to consider his absence when I cook meals. Tomorrow I won’t need 700 grams of some sort of fish for dinner. 500 will do.

One would imagine that- less one child- the house would be quieter, but it isn’t. You see, The Baby usually plays with The Boy. Today there was no Boy and so she played with her Barbies ( who are each and everyone of them a mermaid, she told me, as well as many other titillating bits of gossip about the straw haired bunch- perhaps a career at The National Rag awaits our dear Baby) from 12.30 until 6, within a two foot radius of Mummy Dearest.

She sang the whole time.

The very same song.

And have you, she sang, ever been so in love….

Over and over, for almost 4 hours.

I shall be very glad when she outgrows K3.

I’m not good at telling stories because I intentionally forget things, let them fade into oblivion. If someone put a knife to my throat, I suppose that I could come up with some sad and sentimental dates, but- well- you know, what is the point of carrying all of that… extra ballast around ?

But I shall tell you this- and, truth be told- it is actually an idea which followed two other ideas, terribly dramatic, touching in their own right- men are enchanted by sleeping in your classic Sears / J.C.Penney’s fluffy, white canopy bed.

Bucky bought me this classic canopy bed set, complete with two end tables, a chest of drawers and a ( oh, I’ve lost the word) low chest of drawers with a large mirror over it, when Daddy was in Vietnam. So, I was somewhere between 8 and 9. The bed itself is a double bed ( thinking ahead, Bucky, I suppose…), coming complete with white eyelet all over where one could imagine white eyelet should be. A real chick bed. I busted the canopy part within a few days, swinging from it like Tarzan.

Mr.Jo fixed it up a few years ago, so that The Girl could have my bed.

My father keeps telling me that it just a cheap shit junk bedroom set, but he doesn’t see the truth at all.

While I know that every 8 year old in America has the very same bed- I shall share this with you : there is no location so exotic, no, not even a tent pitched on the highest mounts of Peru- to an adult male as that secret, eyelet swathed canopy bed. Men love canopy beds, swathed in white eyelet.

Believe me, John Wayne would have adored a night in a bed canopied in white eyelet.

I stand corrected : this year’s color for a Mommy- Mobile is blue.

Not white.

Not red.

Big people lining the left side of the road, small ones the right side, with much tooting of horns and waving of hands, The Boy took off for camp.

He was in good spirits.

There is hope.

Tomorrow at 9am, I shall be standing by the school , waving with all of the other Mommys, at a caravan of Mommy-Mobiles filled to the brim with happy campers heading off for 4 days of School Camp.

The Boy will be one of the multitude, chin resting upon his knees in the back seat of some – undoubtably- tiny, red car. Or it might be white- white seems to be a very popular color these days for your basic Mommy- Mobile.

After an extremely tumultuous day, brought on by an evil alignment of the stars as well as memories of The Girl’s less- than – appealing descriptions of her days at School Camp, The Boy has finally settled down into a rather meek, accepting martyrdom of the whole thing. Yes, he will make the best of it, the sports might be fun.

But his heart is not in it, for you see, I have not raised a bunch of hearty, rugged souls. No, I doubt that any of my children will follow my lead and back-pack around some foreign country, toting that load from pint to pint, following whims of the moment.

This became clear to me a few years back, when The Girl was- oh- about 9. We had pulled into some hotel somewhere and after first looking to her left, then to her right ( tapping her foot the whole time), The Girl sniffed out the horrified question ” Well, isn’t there anyone here to take our bags ? “.

And the food at camp did not rate any forks- and- spoons, let alone stars, in The Girl’s guide to fine dining in the Benelux. Shuddering at the memories, she detailed every noxious meal placed before her delicate palate.

This from a kid who has yet to meet a potato she doesn’t like.

I haven’t been much help to The Boy : to tell the truth, I rather agree with him. He doesn’t strike me as your average Happy Camper. But I could be wrong.

I usually am when it comes to The Boy.

For all I know, he just might have the time of his life.

But for now, I feel that I shall be escorting Sidney Carton on his last, long walk tomorrow morning.

Walking to pick up the kids at school for lunch today, the stone-mason who lives around the corner stopped me.

He was wondering, he said, if I had another one of those Kerry posters.

And I said , no problem, I’ll send one over this afternoon.

He-He.

In search of a clip of Garden Party, by Ricky Nelson, I stumbled upon this
this

Mark Harmon’s sister. What do you know.

Never did find my clip, though…

The Boy’s teacher this year is a lesbian. I’ve known that about her…forever, even though I talk to few people in town, it’s just one of those things which one picks up on when living in a small town, like that people know that I’m an American.

Since there is indeed no need to hide it here, I wondered if The Boy would bring it up, in some way.

And he did. At dinner, the first day of school, with an I’ve- a – juicy- tidbit- for- you- look on his face, he said to me “Ms. Karen is a lesbian”. I continued eating- didn’t even pause- and said “So ? Everybody is something.”

I did find it interesting though, to hear that she had flat out brought it up the first day of school. I didn’t pick The Boy ’s memory about it, so I don’t know quite how she presented it, but the one thing that stuck in The Boy’s mind most was that she had been married once. She was divorced now, he told me, but she said that they got along just fine. They were friends.

I like the sortof casual and non- negative way in which this was told to the children, and that it was told to the children at all.

The Boy’s only problem with Ms. Karen is that she doesn’t really like history that much.

She’s more of a Nature Girl.