Friday, November 30, 2007
But I figure seven random things would be easy because if I am nothing else, I am random.
1. I love saying "That's so random," even though I know that really bugs people. It's just - so true. I get on kicks where I'll say it all the time, and then it won't pop into my head for months.
2. Numbers have personality traits in my head. For example, Seven, Nine, Eight, and Three are mean, angry numbers. Four is a nice number, and so is Two. Five and Zero can be angry or nice, depending upon what other numbers are around. Six is a nice number, but sometimes it is mischevious. And so on. (I blame Sesame Street for this.) Same thing with some colors - orangey red in particular is an angry, angry color.
3. My mom used to call me the absent minded professor and it's completely apt. Once I learn how to do something technical, I can remember it forever, but I can't remember where I put things. I can never find my car keys, or my purse, or my shoes, or my coat. I used to call my husband at work to ask him where my shoes were. And that thing where you're looking for your keys, looking, looking, looking, looking, and then you discover you are holding them in your other hand? I do that all the time.
4. I love it when my husband gets a zit on his back and lets me pop it. See, half of the people who read that just got reeeeeeally grossed out, but the other half of you are like - oh, YEAH baby. You're either a zit popper or you're not. I never had bad acne, luckily. If I had, my face would have been completely and totally scarred, because I would not have been able to stop popping my own zits.
5. I hosted Book Club on Wednesday night. It was, as always, really fun. I love the women in our book club. They're all so smart and down to earth. The only reason I'm telling you about this is to prove to people that I do actually, from time to time, interact with real live humans. I know after the last post, some of you were wondering.
6. As a kid, the theme from the Electric Company made me want to kill people. Really. I'd hear "HEEEEEY YOOOOOOOU GUYS" and I would be looking for knives. It just made me irrationally angry. I can't imagine if someone stuck me in an orangey-red room with the number nine written on my hand and the theme from Electric Company playing. I'd probably turn into a serial killer or something.
7. I hate my dog. Someday I will explain why. It's not that complicated though. It has a lot to do with poo. Anything that eats its own poo is quite frankly, not something I wish to be intimately acquainted with.
Monday, November 26, 2007
If I'm going to answer the phone there are certain "criteria."
I will NEVER answer the phone unless I know who it is. If an unfamiliar number shows up on the caller ID, forget it. They're getting the answering machine, baby.
If I know who it is, even if I like or dearly love the person, I usually let the machine get it so that they have to leave a message - then I know what they want. Usually they say something like, "I'm just calling to say hi, call me back." And then I nod and put calling them back on my list of things to do. I'm not sure what I think they're going to say. "I'm calling to tell you that you SUCK and I HATE YOU." It could be. That could happen. So I wait, just to make sure.
If I know who it is, and I urgently need to talk to them, I will think about answering it, but probably I won't. Because I'm ridiculous. We put a sofa up for sale on Craigslist and a lady called and wanted to buy it. I heard her leaving that message, and did I pick up the phone before she hung up? No. I waited till the next day, and when I couldn't think of any other excuse for not calling her, I called and left her a message. And then didn't pick up the phone when she called back. It took a long time to get that dang couch sold.
I have one sister-in-law who has learned all of this about me and she will call and just talk and talk and talk into the answering machine and literally SHAME me into picking up the phone. "I know you are there. I know you are sitting there listening. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone Sue. You can do it. Just pick it up. Come on. I have things to do. Places to go. Just pick up the phone." Sometimes I pick it up. Sometimes though, I just turn the volume down and hide in my room until she hangs up, and then I email her.
One of my friends told me a while ago that she doesn't have caller I.D.
I looked at her incredulously. "You don't have caller I.D.?"
"So you just - answer the phone WITHOUT KNOWING WHO IS THERE?"
I mean really. To have NO IDEA who might be on the phone. Ever. And to pick up the phone ANYWAY. I literally cannot imagine what is going on in her head.
I made a new friend once and after the third or fourth time she called me I was ready to go totally nutso. It seemed like she was calling ALL THE TIME.
"Why does she keep CALLING me?!!" I complained to my husband.
"She's called you three times in three weeks."
"I KNOW it. It's INSANE."
My husband broke out the slow and special voice he uses when he thinks I'm not quite getting it. "Honey -- she wants to be your FRIEND. That's what friends do. They call each other. They talk on the phone. They don't just - email each other once in a while."
"They should. They should just email each other." And the thing is - I DO want to be her friend. I just don't want her to CALL me.
On Sunday the phone rang and I waited for the caller ID to announce it. (We have talking caller ID.) It announced the name of one of my friends, Diana, who was coming over later that afternoon. My husband started to pick it up and I shrieked. "Don't answer it, don' t answer it, don't answer it!"
He stared at me. "Why not?"
I blinked. I wasn't really sure.
He answered it.
I started jumping up and down mouthing, "I'm not here, I'm not here!!"
"Sure, she's right here." He made a face at me and handed me the phone.
I hit mute and said, 'I cannot believe you just did that."
"You need to talk to her, she's coming over later and wants to confirm."
I shook my head. "I can't talk to her right now."
"Because I'm NOT HERE."
"But you ARE here. You do, in fact, exist in this moment in time."
"But I'm NOT READY."
"TAKE THE PHONE. You like her. She is your friend. You are wasting her time. Stop being a such a FREAK."
And of course, Diana and I had a perfectly nice conversation. I'm still mad at my DH though. Because really. Way not to enable me.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thanksgiving was great. We ate. And ate and ate and ate and ate and then just sort of sat around groaning for a while. I was totally doing that disgusting thing where you are so full that you burp and get a little something extra in return. Ugh.
Anyway - goodbye Thanksgiving – HELLO CHRISTMAS! I love Christmas. Not the rampant commercialism and the gift giving frenzy, but all of the other holiday goodness. I love decorating the tree and singing Christmas carols and inflicting my awful baking on my neighbors. I love Christmas parties and Christmas stories and seeing how excited my children are.
I love that it actually snows here. I grew up in Vegas. When snow comes down there, it's a newsworthy event. I’m not kidding – they break into regular broadcast TV to share the exciting news. "I'm reporting live from North Las Vegas, where over TWO INCHES of snow has accumulated over here in the shady area underneath this patio umbrella.” And the camera then cuts to approximately three hundred children trying to use that small snowy patch for sledding.
Here is a picture I took back in Vegas one year before we moved, when it “snowed.” I was so excited and sent the picture to my friend in Minnesota, who emailed back, “That does not even qualify as SNOW. That’s – frost. You are a PANSY.”
Still, it was very exciting. We got the kids all bundled up, gloves, boots, coats – but by the time they got out there it had mostly melted. These days that much snow wouldn’t qualify for boots – it would barely even be a reason to put on flip flops. Still, I remember singing “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas," and feeling so wistful, wishing it would snow.
Hey. Pssssst…. You want to hear about my own personal really freaky coincidence/Christmas miracle (depending upon how cynical you are)?
One year in Las Vegas in December, when I was a kid, we were having a genuine cold snap and it was raining. I could just feel it, that it was THIS CLOSE to snowing. I knelt down and prayed, “Please, please, make it snow. If You make it snow I will never tell a lie again. Ever again. I promise.” I prayed with every bit of faith I could muster and I kid you not, five minutes later it started snowing. It was amazing.
So if this was a fake story, this would be where I changed my ways and never lied again. Obviously, that did not happen. Instead, I rationalized later that REALLY, technically, God hadn’t made it snow. It hadn’t even stuck to the ground! It was only sleet. What a jip-off! Bargain with God – SO NOT BINDING.
Lack of snow notwithstanding, we had a lot of fun traditions. Sometimes our parents would take us out for a drive to see all of the Christmas lights. Sometimes we even convinced my parents to take us down to the Strip to see the really BIG lights. Cruising the strip is probably not a typical Christmas tradition, I realize, but it was always fun, and we would sing Christmas carols as we drove past the Golden Nugget.
On Christmas Eve, our family would all dress up in bathrobes with scarves or towels on our heads and act out the Nativity scene. The girls always fought over who got to be Mary or the Angel. The younger, less aggressive kids ended up having to pretend to be shepherds, or even worse, sheep. I always wanted to be the narrarator, because then I'd get the biggest “part,” and I could control what was going on and who went where and I’d get to talk a lot. (Some things don’t change.) We still do it in our family, but we inflict it on the grandchildren – and they love it. And we love it.
Now that I’m married and have kids, my DH and I are still trying to build our own family traditions. DH refuses to go caroling with us. Last year we used our nativity set to act out the story. Unfortunately, the ceramic babe in the manger is now headless, the victim of an overzealous shepherds cane. We’re still kinda working on building our own traditions. I’m hoping to get some ideas from all of you for fun, creative, (hopefully cheap) stuff we can do with our kids this season, that will hopefully evolve into fun traditions.
What are your favorite Christmas / holiday traditions?
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A hot air balloon unexpectedly touched down in the neighborhood.
Within seconds, the balloon was overrun with children. The hot air balloon pilot said, "I've never seen a neighborhood with so many kids." Indeed.
They were affable and friendly, and gave children from the neighborhood hot air balloon rides...
My daughter did not take them up on their kind offer.
They gave rides....
Until they ran out of helium...
But no worries, the kids helped them to get the balloon squared away.
There was a couple riding in the balloon. They were on a blind date, which was being filmed for a local TV show.
The guy teased all of the children and joked around with them, telling them they'd flown the balloon all the way from Disneyland. I think the girl liked him quite a bit.
The kids helped to put the balloon in the - balloon putter awayer thingie...
Then helped to make sure it was packed away tightly by sitting on top of it.
The balloon landing crew (or whatever you call 'em) came to pick up the stranded balloonists and the kids gradually wandered away...
It was a day they will remember for a long time.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Taking a page from Kimberly’s book, I thought I’d tell you about his super duper romantic totally impulsive marriage proposal. Like a lot of things in our life, our engagement started off as sort of a joke.
We were friends for a while before we started dating, but once we took that step we clicked instantly and we were in love, just like that, no muss, no fuss. I love you, you love me, no games, no drama. It was awesome.
One night after we’d been dating for about three weeks, we were sitting in his driveway, in the back of his truck, just talking. It was about ten o’clock at night and his mom kept coming to the front window and peering out at us. She wasn’t totally sold on me yet and I know she was wondering if I was trying to corrupt him. In the driveway. In front of her house. While she was watching.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depends on how you look at it), we weren’t doing anything interesting, just talking and laughing about how fast people we knew from the singles congregation at church got engaged once they started dating. Sometimes they got engaged after they'd been dating for only a couple of weeks. We joked around about how it was so idiotic, so very desperate, so very Mormon cliché.
I remember saying, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we told everyone we were engaged? Can you imagine? My friends would die.”
He chuckled. “My parents would freak out. They'd think we were nuts.” He laughed again. “We should. We should tell them that. Just to see the looks on their faces.”
I laughed. “Hilarious. Let’s do it.”
He was playing with my fingers and he said, “Wouldn’t it be weird if we actually got engaged?”
I remember freezing up a little. Um... What? Was he serious? Play it cool. Play it cool. I let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. That would be really weird.”
He was watching me closely but then grinned mischeviously. “What would you say if I actually asked you to marry me?”
I stared at him, thunderstruck. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“No!" He said it a little too emphatically and I scowled a little. "I’m just asking you – what would you say if I asked you?”
I laughed. “You can’t ask me that.”
“Because, you coward, you just have to ask.” I hit him. “Freak.”
“Can’t you even give me a hint, just so I know?” he wheedled.
"No." No way in heck was I gonna tell him my real answer, which was - yes, of course. Despite all of my blustering about fast engagements, I'd marry him in an instant. I knew about ten minutes after we started dating that we were perfect for each other. Perfect. But I couldn't tell HIM that.
“No, you wouldn’t marry me, or no you won't give me a hint?"
“No hints. Geez. Are you a man or a mouse?"
“That's not a very nice thing to say to someone who may or may not possibly be hypothetically proposing to you," he said reproachfully.
“Well, you aren't supposed to ask me like that," I said, exasperated.
“But I just did. So ANSWER THE QUESTION," he said. The expression on his face made me laugh.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“So you’d maybe marry me if I maybe asked you to marry me. At some point in the future.”
“You’d have to ask to know for sure.”
He kissed my hand. “What if I ask?”
My mind went blank again. “What if – what if you ask? Are you asking now?”
“Hypothetically? I'm not answering a hypothetical marriage proposal.” The whole conversation feel surreal and we were both laughing again.
“O.k. I’m asking.”
“You’re asking? Seriously?”
I checked him out. He DID look suddenly very serious. How incredibly strange and bizarre. “Really?”
“No, I’m just kidding.” He grinned again.
I hit him.
He leaned in to give me a kiss. “You love me, right?”
“Not at the moment," I grumped.
"I'll take that as a yes." He pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Once again, I was lost.
“Go tell my parents we’re getting married.”
I was so confused. “What? Fake married?”
And he smiled at me and gave me another kiss, a longer one this time. “You know we’re gonna do it eventually. Let’s just – cut to the chase.” And he kissed me again.
I never knew the words, "cut to the chase" could be so romantic. I don't think we got around to telling his parents that night. His mom sure got an eyeful though.
And cut to the chase we did. There was a real proposal about a week later, after he’d gotten a ring, but I think of that, that strange little conversation in the driveway, as our real engagement. That was when we knew we were in it for the long haul. Three months later, we got married. And we've been married for 11 really happy years.
(I would never recommend this by the way. If my kids try something similar I will beat them. We were SO LUCKY that it worked out. Because, really, at least in theory - what a train-wreck waiting to happen.)
This is a picture of an engagement picture. My scanner is down. The blurriness is probably for the best anyway. Check out that hair. Did I just go to the salon and ask them to bring out a salad bowl and cut around it? Sheesh. And the eyebrows. And what were we wearing? And why didn't someone tell us to change? Yikes.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The blog world is full of posts that are such wonderful, loving, inspirational examples of parenting. I love those posts. They make me cry and they fill me with resolve to be a better mother, to be THAT kind of mother. And blog world or no, there are a lot of days when I am so full of love for my children that I think I'm going to explode.
But then there are those other days, when I'm filled to the brim with irritation, and every other word out of my mouth is snappish. Days when I'm living in my head, planning something or thinking about something or rehashing something, and my children's interactions with me feel like an intrusion, like an interruption. There are days when I just want them to leave me alone.
Today my son had to repeat himself four times because even though I was looking at him and saying "What?!" - I still wasn't really listening. I was just nodding, vacantly, thinking about other things. He was frustrated with me, rightfully so. It happens far too often. And I wonder if it makes him feel insignificant, if it makes him feel ignored. Because that's what I'm doing. I'm ignoring the hum of noise and activity around me - zoning it out and retreating into myself, into my thoughts.
Abby said, "Mom, could you read me a story?" She was hopeful. "Maybe later," I said, and I knew I probably wouldn't, at least not today. She wandered off and later on, I pretended not to notice that she was sorting through a pile of books, trying to sound out words on her own. (Mother of the freaking year, I am.)
Sarah said in the sweetest, politest tone possible (because that's how she is), "Mommy, may you please do Mad Libs with me?" and for no reason at all I snapped, "Not right now." Without even thinking about it. Without even really considering it. I just didn't want to be bothered. Later, at bedtime she said wistfully, "I wish we would have had time to do Mad Libs," and she wasn't accusatory, but sad. And I felt like crap.
I got really mad at my son at bedtime and I yelled at him, REALLY yelled at him, over nothing. I sent him to his room and heard him crying pitifully and so I went after him. I crawled up on his bed with him and laid down next to him, and told him I was sorry, and that I loved him, and luckily he has a very forgiving heart, because he wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me. He cried a little more and told me through his tears, "You hurt my feewings vewy much mom." I stayed there with him until he fell asleep, still hugging me, and berated myself for being such a giant turd.
I could probably make plenty of somewhat reasonable sounding excuses - it's not a big deal, everyone does that now and then, but I wonder if that's a cop-out. How many days of loving attention counteract how many days of benign neglect and irritation? How many days of parental emotional self indulgence = children who remember you as, primarily, an inattentive shrew? I don't have a lot of confidence in that kind of math.
I read a post tonight, a poem that wonderful Emily wrote for her mother. It starts like this:
You are my giving tree;
And I am the greedy—needy—little boy.
You give your shade, your fruit,
Bark, wood, stump,
And I take.
(Go read the whole thing here - wipe off your mascara first.)
Later she talks about finding comfort and solace in her relationship with her mother. And THAT's the kind of mom I want to be. Not a stomping around, selfish, self involved harpy mother. A soft landing place. But you don't just get that spot because of biology. You earn it. I do have a lot of good days as a mom, days when I read to them and take them to the park and sing with them and play with them and talk to them. But I have what feels like a lot of bad days too. If I'm a good mom 60% of the time, and a calm but inattentive zombie 30% of the time and a really bad mom 10% of the time - what am I earning? Do I want to take the risk that they remember only the good stuff?
Every day I'm shaping their memory of me. I'm shaping our future relationship. Every single day. With every single action.
We are so screwed.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Late breaking news: I am the MOTHER. That means you do what I say. That does not mean you listen and then whine a little and then think it over and then cry and then roll around on the floor and then stare at me balefully and then wait until I start counting to three and THEN you do what I say. It just means you do what I say.
The Tyrannical Being Who Is the Destroyer of All Fun
P.S.: Don’t stick your tongue out at me. I can see you.
Dear Dumb, Stupid, Hateful Dog:
Have you seen 101 Dalmations lately? Yeah? Well, two words:
The Woman Who Was Not Happy With The Little Present You Left On The Carpet This Morning
P.S. I hate you.
The dog left you a present. Enjoy!
The Woman Who Is Ready to Send The Dog Off To The Farm - The Farm Where All Evil Dogs Go To
The wall is for holding up the roof. It has sufficient texture and color already. You do not need to fortify the wall by plastering it with boogers at night. Heaven knows you are constantly looking for excuses to get out of bed at night - so GET OUT OF BED and WIPE IT ON A FREAKING TISSUE. Good gravy. I mean, you know I hate boogers, right? So why would you make me pick old hard, dried up ones off the wall with my fingernail? Ugh.
The Woman Who Cannot Believe Such Gross Creatures Could Possibly Be Her Offspring Because Really, That Is Just Sick And Wrong
P.S. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Stay in the backyard means stay in the backyard. It does not mean open up the gate and go in the front yard and walk down the street to where your friends are all congregated. It means stay in the yard that is in the back. The BACK YARD. When you nod and say, “Yes mom, we will stay in the backyard,” I assume you are agreeing to Stay.In.The.Back.Yard. The one in the back. This is not an acceptable response: “OOH, you meant the BACK yard. Oh. Sorry.” If you want to play with your friends in the front yard, ask me. But don't act like you had no idea what I was talking about. I know you speak English.
The Woman Who Is Buying A Padlock For The Gate Tomorrow
Listen. We've gotta talk, mommy to three year old. I know it feels nice and apparently this is perfectly normal and - all that jazz, but you can't - handle it all day long. And you really can't take it out of your pants and point it at people. That kind of behavior will land you in jail someday. Seriously. Put it away.
The Woman Responsible For Teaching You How To Become a Functioning Member of Society, Lord Help Us All
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Carter, after wandering into the bathroom when I'm getting out of the tub (yes, we're all relaxed like that), and seeing the water level go down when I get out, "Wow, that - that lotto water Mom! You so big! Wow!"
Abby, giving me a big hug and a kiss: "You're such a nice old fat mama. I love you my big fat mama."
Abby, watching me get on my bike: "What if you pop the tires?"
Sarah, looking at us side by side in the mirror: "I'm thin." Looks me up and down. "You're more.... Thick."
My husband, making me want to whap him upside the head, "Gosh, I've lost so much weight. None of my pants will stay up anymore. What am I gonna do?" (Yeah. This is me, not caring about your "problem.")
This is me, the jolly version:
This was probably not a good fashion choice. (No, I am not pregnant, why do you ask?)
That whole healthy eating and exercise thing?
SO. BACK. ON.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
For a long time Sarah was under the impression that Jesus lived in heaven with Santa Claus and Frosty the Snowman. In her mind they are all magical creatures with special powers, and it's hard to disabuse her of the notion because - well, Santa is magic, right? And Jesus is - well, not magic, but powerful. (It's a fine line.) I'm surprised, frankly, that she is not terrified of little baby Jesus. Because the girl is petrified of anything even faintly magical.
I remember when she first found out about Santa Claus. "An old man is going to - come into my house? In the middle of the night? From out of the fireplace? And he steals food? And - and he's watching me, right now?" She was terrified. She wanted nothing to do with this Santa Claus man, and she didn't care if he left her presents. She just wanted him to STAY OUT OF HER HOUSE.
Every time we tried to talk to her about it, to reassure her, she got more upset. She made me promise that I would tell him not to come by, that we were fine. She asked me to meet him at the store to pick up the toys, then bring them home for her to open on Christmas morning. On Christmas Eve, when other kids are telling stories about how Santa Claus is coming to town and gleefully watching out the window and listening for sleigh bells, she's making us check the locks. We don't talk a whole lot about Santa around here. When we do, it's in hushed tones.
Her fear of magical creatures does not start and end with Santa. When I was filling out the paperwork for pre-school a few years ago, there was a sheet that asked, "Does your child have any special fears," and I dutifully wrote, "Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, magic people, mean fairies, etc." I thought the teacher would understand this extended to leprechauns.
On St. Patrick's Day, stupid me, I sent her to pre-school not realizing there would be a whole leprechaun THING. (Here in my neck of the woods, people go nuts over every holiday. EVERY holiday. This is the only place I've ever lived where there are treasure hunts on St. Patrick's Day - where the leprechauns leave treats for the children. ) The teacher decided it would be fun to tell the kids that leprechauns were in the preschool bathroom that morning wreaking havoc, and proceeded to show them how the bathroom is a big mess, with drawers open, and toilet paper strewn about.
Cue the other children laughing with delight. Cue the other children looking for the leprechaun and finding the treasure and happily eating candy. Cue Sarah getting hysterical. Cue Sarah refusing to use that bathroom for the rest of the school year. Cue Sarah peeing herself rather than having to use that bathroom.
I think she is starting to grow out of it because she DID allow the Tooth Fairy to come by - I think because the Tooth Fairy deals in cash, and she is currently fascinated with the whole concept of money.
I asked her tonight if she would like to go see Santa at the mall and she responded with a nervous smile, "Uh, sure. Maybe." Followed by nervous laughter and darting eyes. Carter patted her on the back then made an imaginary gun with his fingers and said, "Don' worry Sare, I shock him for ya, pow pow." Great. My kid wants to off Santa. But at least he's doing it for his sister, and that's sort of - nice. Right? Right?
P.S. Any of you who are Harry Potter fans recognized the post title. My kids? They would not recognize it. Because we can't watch Harry Potter. We can't watch anything marginally scarier than Barbie and the Island Princess. Elmo Saves Christmas was alarming. Barbie Fairytopia FREAKED. THEM. OUT and they refused to walk upstairs alone for a month, because, you know, there might be evil barbie fairies hidden in the playroom. If I were to show them Harry Potter? They would probably need counseling.
P.P.S. Thanks to a commenter I just realized that "The Proper Care and Feeding of" is not from Harry Potter but from Dr. Laura. So my first P.S. makes - not a lot of sense. But you get the idea.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Statements After Which It Is Probably Inappropriate to Respond, "But I Really Need To Update My Blog"
“I need help with my piano theory Mom.”
"We'd like to bring clients over to see your house. Can you have it ready to show by noon?"
"Momma - can you hep me build fort wight now?"
"Hey baby. How YOU doin?"
Real life intervenes, yet again. I don't even want to look at my bloglines. I am afraid. Very afraid. Noblomopo is a terrifying thing.
Completely randomly, I think the religious instruction we are providing our children may be somewhat lacking. Consider:
Abby: “I'm not going to church anymore, 'cuz I know everything about Jesus already 'cuz we talked about Jesus last week and last week and last week and last week and we sang a hundred and eleventy songs and I'm ALL DONE."
Me: “Really? You know everything about him?
Abby: “Everything. In the world. Ever ever.”
Me: ‘Where was he born?”
Me: “No. Guess again.”
Abby: “Um.... Highland, Utah?”
Me: “Bzzzzz. No.”
Abby: (Thinks very hard.) “Disneyland.”
Me: “I'm afraid you’re going, my dear.”
(Hey, if I have to go, so does she. At least she gets crackers.)