Annabel has been very into Mary Poppins recently.  I am okay with this.  We got her started on it about a month ago, in yet another attempt to wean her off the documentary Babies, her previous obsession.  I am a fan of Babies; I had no problem with that movie either.  I actually found it quite sweet that she would request a simple film about babies over any other cartoon or child-appropriate entertainment at her disposal.  If you haven’t seen Babies, you might not understand that it really is a movie about babies.  Just…babies. Doing their baby thing all over the world.  Apparently, Annabel found those babies completely irresistable.

So, yes, it was cute that she loved the babies that much, but at some point (25th viewing? 33rd viewing? 58th viewing?) I felt like it was time to move her along.  Maybe to something with an actual plot, say.

We found a video of Mary Poppins at the library book sale for 25 cents, which was cheap enough to encourage us to dig the old VCR out from its hiding spot and hook it up.  Ever since, we’ve been on a Mary Poppins binge, which is also fine and enjoyable, even if I have to listen to butchered, three-year old versions of “Chim Chim Cheree” and “Let’s Go Fly a Kite” at various points in the day.

The best part of this movie for me, forever, is, of course, that word that you say when you don’t know what to say.  I’ve got a sort of potpourri of blog topics that I could write about, but they aren’t really particularly interesting on their own but all mashed together they might serve as a post.  In the spirit of Mary Poppins, I’m just going to toss them out there and see where it takes me.

Even if the sound of them is something quite atrocious.


My car has begun making the low, rattly, growling noises of an exhaust leak.  I’ve tried pointing it out to Michael several times, but he stubbornly refuses to hear it. I can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to make me feel insane or if he truly just can’t hear the demon that is humming directly under the gas pedal.

The problem with this sort of thing is that he is the fix-it guy in the household.  And so I usually defer to his judgment in such matters.

But, although he is the mechanically inclined one, I am the child of a mechanic.  A mechanic who used to give long, detailed, excruciating lectures about certain telltale sounds a car will make when things are not correct.  A mechanic who made me spend a lot my of childhood laying on a piece of cardboard under a car, holding the flashlight as various pieces of an exhaust system were banged in or out of place.  Therefore, I declare my experience to be superior to his natural-born talent.

Hence, in this matter, I am absolutely correct and he should just get down under there and look.


This week I was privy to one of the weirder snobbish conversations I’ve ever heard.  I’ve spent much of my adult life mocking music snobs. You know, the ones who argue that U2 is the most horribly overpraised band of the twentieth century, especially since everyone knows that crown belongs to Accordanius, the Romanian zydeco band that has been heard by exactly two people in the history of time.  I really dislike those music snobs.

I don’t have much more love for movie snobs, who like to point out that Casablanca is really a hack job of an Italian silent film made in 1923 and starring a St. Bernard named Extolio. His performance was so stunning it can’t even spoken of without tears.  What, you haven’t heard of it? Hmmm…interesting.

And then there are the literary snobs who believe that any literature read in translation is a mockery of the author’s efforts.  Or the internet snobs who have been blogging since 1954.  Or art snobs who spend hours flinging bizarre insults at each other (“You are the dirt under Picasso’s nails! Your rendering of a dead fish is both derivative and hopelessly irrelevant!”).

These are all qualifiers for the Crown of Annoying Snobbery.

However, on Tuesday night I spent about half-an-hour listening to three grown men argue about which type of food source/finishing technique/butchery technique will produce the  most ethically superior meat that also contains the most marbling.

Food snobs, that conversation was a point for your side.


Last night was a pretty chilly night in our area.  It got down to around 25-30 degrees and there was a pretty significant frost on the cars and nearby fields when we awoke.  It was chilly in the house this morning, about 58 degrees, but, much to the chagrin of our Floridian houseguests, I refused to turn on the heat.

Lots of Mainers play this game, where we try to out-tough each other each fall.  Once the heat goes on, it’s on until May, so we like to see who can go the longest without giving in.  Some refuse to consider it before November 1, but that seems a little late to me, especially with little kids in the house.  I personally go with October 15th.  Going later than that definitely gives you a higher score towards whatever final prize absolutely no one is offering.  I’m not sure how late you go before you win.  But turning it on before October 15th means you definitely lose.  Of that I am certain.

Sorry, Florida folk.


I lost my cell phone for four whole days this week.  I barely noticed it was missing.  When I finally located it Wednesday night at the bottom of the library bag from Saturday, I had only five missed calls (all Michael) and one text message from a poor soul who thinks I actually text.

Smoke signals might better.  In case you were wondering.  But actually, none of you tried to call me so never mind.

Hey look! It’s ringing now! Oh, it’s Michael again.


I think that’s all I’ve got.

Unless we want to go down the dociousaliexpiisticfragilcalirupus road.

But that’s going a bit too far, don’t you think?