Quick Q

I finally watched the mommy-blogging* segment from the Today Show. Heather Armstrong's interviewer(s) seemed ignorant at best, and I think Armstrong did an outstanding job of exuding grace and intelligence.

But here's the one thing that I just don't understand:

How the heck did the dingbat from the Carnival Cruise Line commercials get a gig on the Today Show?






*Man, that word bothers me.

True Story

Since that whole number/gender thing seems to be going over like a lead balloon, I present you with this conversation that occurred between a student and me this morning:

Student: Mrs. Whiz, I don't have my homework because...

Me: No excuses. Go on and write your name on the board.

***A few minutes later.***

Student: Mrs. Whiz, I was going to tell you that I wasn't able to do my homework last night because I have an ingrown toenail.

*blink* *blink*

Y'all she was serious as could be. She went on to tell me about how her mom did some operating on her toe and that it hurt and she just couldn't bear to do those 10 division problems afterward. And yes, I realize that ingrown toenails can be very painful, but really? You didn't do your homework because you have an ingrown toenail? That's the best one I've ever heard.

Ever.

I'm not alone. Whew.

After Hollow Squirrel's comment, I had to go back and see if I could find the post that I initially stumbled upon about assigning gender to numbers and colors. I didn't find that exact one, but I did find this one from Random Acts of Sanity.

See? I'm not the only one!

What's freaky is that none of us seem to assign the same genders or personalities to any of the numbers.

By the way, the letters of the alphabet also have gender.

At least, in my mind they do.

Too Much Time on My Hands: Numbers, Colors, and Gender

I assign gender and personalities to numbers. I've done this for as long as I can remember.

***Updated below to show you just how much of a lunatic I really am.***

0: Female. Nice, though a little abrasive.
1: Female. A peacemaker.
2: Male. A bit wimpy.
3: Male. Talks a big talk, but he's not that tough.
4: Male. Manly, but quiet.
5: Male. He's the alpha male. A little boisterous, rough-and-tumble.
6: Female. Pleasantly plump. Reminds me of Cinderella's fairy godmother.
7: Female. Kind and nurturing.
8: Female. Bossy and difficult.
9: Female. She's the alpha female and the mother figure.

While I don't assign personality traits to colors, they also have gender:

Female: Red, yellow, orange, pink, white.
Male: Blue, green, brown, black, gray.

Purple can go either way.

Am I the only one that does this? Or if other people categorize numbers and colors this way, are their genders different? I'd like to see some information about what causes this, although I'm pretty positive it has something to do with the brain's propensity to assimilate, accommodate, and associate.


Mrs. Squirrel asked about composite numbers like 84 and 295. As if that crazy stuff up there weren't suspicious enough, I'll just reveal another layer of my lunacy:

In a number like 84, 8 tries to dominate the 4 in her usual bossy way, but 4 is such a reserved kind of guy that 8 comes across as a total bitch.

In 295, you've got sort of a group thing going on--kind of like 3 individuals at lunch. Wimpy 2 is looking for acceptance and approval from alpha numbers 9 and 5.

After thinking about 295 for a minute or two more, I conclude that in this case, 2 has managed to toughen himself up a little by appearing in the hundreds place, but he's still a wuss. I also think that 9 and 5 might be dating. It would make sense, no?

OK, I have definitely got problems.

Really? Y'all don't do this?

Hollow Squirrel, I think I skimmed the post you're referring to when I searched to see if this was something that the entire blogosphere had already discussed. I thought for sure that I was just late to the party again.

I totally kissed it.

Tonight during bathtime:

Al: (pointing to his bottom) My hurt.

Me: Your bottom hurts?

Al: My bommut hurts.

Me: (Bending over tub to check out the territory) Show Mommy where.

Al: (Pointing again to chubby cheek) Right here.

(Pause) Kiss it!

My Obsession

About a year ago, while we set about packing to move from our temporary school to the new building, I invited my students to bring their favorite movies to watch in the afternoons. They enjoyed their movies while I stuffed math manipulatives and science kits and paperback books into big yellow plastic crates. Most days, I just checked to make sure the movie was rated "G" and popped that baby in the player without paying much attention to the movie itself.

One day, one of my quietest, toughest boys brought his favorite DVD to share. I checked the rating, popped it in, and commenced to packing art supplies. But only for a second or two. The movie was Cars. And from the first "Speed. I am speed," to the outtakes, I was enthralled. Nary a paintbrush was packed that afternoon.

I've always been a car fan. From my earliest memory, I've been surrounded by cars. My granddaddy was a body man, and my dad refurbished cars for fun. My first car was a 1980 Ford Mustang that he spiffed up and tuned up. Then, I proceeded to date a long line of car guys--several car aficionados and even one honest-to-goodness race car driver. My mom never liked my yen for car guys, and I suspect it's because my dad was one. But she couldn't deny that it was in my blood. Even my dad's mother--my Granny--had been a car lover.

(Of course, it would only stand to reason that I would go on to marry a man who cares absolutely nothing about cars aside from their ability to transport him from one place to another. My mom loves him to pieces.)

So when I heard Owen Wilson as Lightning McQueen, I couldn't wait to share the experience with Al. On my way to pick him up from daycare, I stopped and bought my our very own copy.

Al was barely 16 months old at the time, but he loved Cars, too. In fact, he became obsessed with the movie. He would watch "May-mer" (Mater) for hours upon hours unless I coerced him to do other things, like play outside. All summer long, I heard requests and pleas and demands for "Cars!", and I'm frankly surprised that the disk was not worn out completely by July. For the last year, even through his "Wiggles" stage, Al has remained a loyal Cars devotee.

For Christmas, Al received several Cars die-cast characters, and since then, we've added a few more to the collection. The obsession now, though, is all mine. I have developed an unnatural love for our die-cast Cars characters. I'm on a mission to obtain every single one of them, and I cannot walk through a Target or Toys-r-us without checking out their Cars section.

I think part of my love for all things Cars is an attempt to hold on to Al's babyhood. I know that one day, long after he has cast away his toy cars in favor of real cars and little hussies and beer, these silly little die-cast cars will be my tangible reminder of a little boy who loved May-mer.

Thanks to Marilyn for the inspiration for this one.

Hallelu, hallelu, hallelu, hallelujah!

The last course of my school librarian certification is finished--I submitted my final paper last week. By the way, I cannot emphasize enough the idiocy of my decision to return to college again with a toddler and husband and household to tend to. Nonetheless, it is finished, we are several thousand dollars poorer, and I'll soon have that additional little certification in my pocket.

The last two rounds of high-stakes testing for my students were also completed this week. I am moving into a new position next year--a position in which I will still be working directly with students (good), but without the pressure of having my name attached to a specific group's set of test scores (VERY good). And no, funny enough, I will not be working as a school librarian. That would make way too much sense, you know.

Do you see what has happened? In a matter of just a few days, two of the largest, most time-consuming, most energy-consuming, most all-consuming stressors in my daily life have gone away. And I am left with my life, and the potential to do just about whatever I want with it.

Because it has been years--I believe the last time was around 2003--since I've faced this much freedom and tranquility, I think I should make a list of ways to spend my time, now that it is again, well, mine:

1. Duh--spend more time playing and snuggling and talking with the Mr. and Al. They are nineteen kinds of wonderful, those two.
2. Garden. I started a little vegetable garden several weeks ago, and it just might make it. That will be a big accomplishment for a girl whose former neighbor used to announce each spring when he caught me bringing home bedding plants, "Ahhh, it's the killing season again, I see."
3. Read. Oh-em-gee, I cannot wait to read some quality trash. Suggestions, anyone?
4. Finish decorating our home and finally redo the master bath. Yes, we've lived here for three years already, and the place is still not finished. And no, my last name is not McCord van Kempen.
5. Go for more walks, eat more popsicles, take more pictures, and bake more cookies.

My little garden. It's a good thing I like tomatoes.

Super (Cars) Nanny

My kid has an obsession with the color green. He's not exactly enamored with the color itself, but with announcing very enthusiastically, "That's GREEN!" as he points to random objects. He's right only about 40% of the time, and I applaud with squeals of "Yes, that IS green, you smart boy!" Truth be known, he really doesn't seem to care about his accuracy, only about the degree of pleasure and gusto with which he announces his assessment of an object's greenness.

Along with announcing repeatedly, "That's GREEN!" Al's other favorite diversion is putting his cars in time out. But he won't put the car in time out--that's the mama's job. He brings the offending car to me, states, "Time out?" and the following exchange occurs:

Al: Time out?
Me: Mater/Doc/Wingo/whoever (NEVER Lightning, by the way) needs time out?
Al: Time out.
Me: What did he do?
Al: He did no-noes.
Me: No-noes?
Al: He hit.

And that's where I go all Super Nanny on a die-cast car. I go through the whole enchilada about how we do not hit and that is not OK and you're going to sit in time out and think about how you must be nice to your friends.

And then, Al swoops in and decides that his car has spent long enough on the time out mat. He hands the car to me, and--I am not even joking and I wish I were--I complete the time out process by repeating what the car did wrong and telling him that I'm sure he'll make better choices next time.

And then. And then, I have to give the car a hug. On days when I am fed up with the cars-in-time-out game and I try my best to rush through the spiel, Al prompts me: "Hug?" And so I hug the car. And then Al hugs the car, too. And I die from the absurd cuteness of it all.