run fast – stand still

In December The Golden Compass movie, based on my favorite Pullman trilogy His Dark Materials, will be out in theatres. Until then, the web site has presented yet another way to wile away my time: by finding out the shape of my daemon. (In the trilogy, people’s “souls” exist in an animal form that never strays too far from the individual person.)

According to the quiz, my daemon is a Snow Lepard named Archeleron. You can find out more about him (and me) by clicking on the “my daemon” link above.

I’ll admit, the first time I took the quiz I was a White Wolf named Alexius, but I lost the link to my daemon. I figure that the leopard is more fitting since it is of the feline persuasion. There is probably also something to be said in that both of my daemons are the of the white variety. What, I don’t know. But something nonetheless.

Why I Love Brooklyn:

Yesterday, while walking down a quiet residential street, we stumbled upon a place that makes and sells fresh pasta. Fresh Pasta! Even better is that the fresh pasta is not expensive, weighing in at 2.50$ per pound for long noodles ranging from angle hair to linguine to a few types I couldn’t recognize by name. Ooo! And only 5$ for lots of ravioli filled with porcini or pumpkin or sun dried tomatos or artichokes. Yum.

Why Ice Cream Trucks Hate Me:

For the last week, all I have wanted is a soft-serve ice cream cone. That’s it. Nothing fancy. No sprinkles. Just a soft-serve ice cream cone.

For the last week, I have walked around with exactly 2$ in my pocket so that I can buy a soft-serve ice cream cone from an ice cream truck if I happen to see one in my neighborhood. I know they are out there. I can hear their music while I’m in my apartment. I can even hear their music when I’m out running errands in my neighborhood. But I have not actually seen one single ice cream truck. Not one. Nothing. Nada.

Clearly the ice cream trucks hate me and the greater forces are against me.

Clearly. Because while I was walking home after work, Dave called me to say that two of the boys were over watching basketball. Then he asked how close I was to home. When I told him I was near the Mexican Bakery, I heard one of our friends in the background scream, “Buy me a guava pastry! The one with the cheese! A guava pastry with cream cheese!!!” So with one of my last 2$ I pick up a pastry for my friend. I turn the corner. I walk a few blocks with pastry bag in hand.

I see a freakin’ ice cream truck. Parked. And I only have a dollar because I have a freakin’ guava pastry that’s not even for me.

PS:

Guava is a tropical fruit that looks like this.

And a Guava Pastry with cream cheese looks like this, but usually with a bit more guava filling:

(Not my hand, or anyone’s hand that I might know.)

I think I might be broken.

This weekend we spent time with the twins, my soon to be niece and nephew, and I had a great time playing with them.

Wanna run around the yard in circles for hours? I can do that. Play with the dollies? I can do that. Try a game of hide and seek that consists of hiding directly behind me while I pretend that no one is there? Yep. I can do that, too. I can “read” many books, zoom with toy cars, make animal noises, and play the “what is that?” game for as long as each twin remains interested.

Why am I broken? I don’t think that the twins are the cutest children to walk on the face of the planet. I’m not amazed by their growing vocabulary or their ability to sing nursery rhymes. That’s what growing kids are suppose to do: be cute, learn new words, sing. I’m not going to spend hours gushing about how adorable, sweet, and wonderful they are (when they aren’t tired, fussing, hungry, biting each other, or screaming because they don’t want to pick up their toys, see each other, or have their diapers changed. I’m pretty sure their favorite phrase is “Go away, other twins’ name! Go away!”)

And while I am pointing out my broken-ness, why exactly is it “cute” to teach little kids to sing songs with words in them that, if sung by an adult, would be considered horribly detrimental and any number of words ending with “ist”? (This is just a general question about little kids, not a twins-specific question, that I have been pondering lately.)

I have friends who gush about their nieces and/or nephews. Those friends clearly are not broken. Some friends have told me that I’ll be more gushy after I’ve had children of my own because then I’ll be a part of the awe and wonder of childhood growth and blah blah blah. (I am not pregnant.) But I don’t know. (I am not pregnant.) Right now what I think about is how I’d have to move my picture books off the bottom shelf of the bookcase because damn if I’m going to let my kids tear up my favorite picture books. (I am not pregnant.) Some of those books are out of print. (I am not pregnant.)

See, clearly I am broken. Seeing the twins reminds me of that very fact every time. I am broken, and if I ever have children of my own, I’m pretty sure my broken-ness will become even more apparent to the rest of the world.

I’ve been thinking about sleeping.

And I’ve been thinking that I’d like one of those fiber (not goose down) matress toppers.

But I’ve not a clue about which is better than what, since I’ve never slept on a fiber matress toppper before.

Any insight or advice will be very much appreciated.

This one looks pretty.