Gelt in spring.
If your eyes are itchy, take your contacts out.
If your feet are sweaty, take your shoes off.
If your roommate is napping, use your headphones.
You see, Self? There are solutions to your problems. Simple, easy solutions. Silly Self.
When I was Luka's nanny, once a week we had a little class at Gymboree. He was one. If he had had a good time at Gymboree class and was in a good mood, it was always easier to put his little shoes and coat and hat, what-have-you, back on when it was time to leave. He wasn't old enough to recognize that the cues for leaving Gymboree meant no-more-fun. If Luka was sleepy and in a bad mood, of his own accord, it was almost impossible to get him dressed for the car ride home. It's not like he would squirm or fight, but he'd be such an indifferent, stubborn lump. I'd be stuffing his foot into a shoe and he'd be looking down at his foot like, "She's trying to make this happen. It's just not working. But I'm not going to make this happen. Pssh."
Self was saying to Kristen, "Pssh. I'm not going to make this happen." But Kristen took charge and made the eyes, feet, and ears happy. Better, at least. Now... it's time for some actual work.
Gah. Both Self and Kristen want to throw a temper tantrum.
But! I had thirty-seven pieces of Hanukkah gelt tucked into my Egyptian scarf, and it all came spilling out of my backpack when I came home, like I was hoarding a little treasure trove. Picture the gold against cerulean... my cabaret class is stringing 1300 pieces of gelt to hang from Siberia's basement ceiling. Got that? My homework is to string the remaining thirty-seven pieces I have, on six-inch loops of fishing wire. I'm in charge of the six-inch loops.
I'm going to plug the show a bit later, but... there will be 1300 pieces of chocolate, hand-strung, hanging from the ceiling for consumption. Beat that.
If your feet are sweaty, take your shoes off.
If your roommate is napping, use your headphones.
You see, Self? There are solutions to your problems. Simple, easy solutions. Silly Self.
When I was Luka's nanny, once a week we had a little class at Gymboree. He was one. If he had had a good time at Gymboree class and was in a good mood, it was always easier to put his little shoes and coat and hat, what-have-you, back on when it was time to leave. He wasn't old enough to recognize that the cues for leaving Gymboree meant no-more-fun. If Luka was sleepy and in a bad mood, of his own accord, it was almost impossible to get him dressed for the car ride home. It's not like he would squirm or fight, but he'd be such an indifferent, stubborn lump. I'd be stuffing his foot into a shoe and he'd be looking down at his foot like, "She's trying to make this happen. It's just not working. But I'm not going to make this happen. Pssh."
Self was saying to Kristen, "Pssh. I'm not going to make this happen." But Kristen took charge and made the eyes, feet, and ears happy. Better, at least. Now... it's time for some actual work.
Gah. Both Self and Kristen want to throw a temper tantrum.
But! I had thirty-seven pieces of Hanukkah gelt tucked into my Egyptian scarf, and it all came spilling out of my backpack when I came home, like I was hoarding a little treasure trove. Picture the gold against cerulean... my cabaret class is stringing 1300 pieces of gelt to hang from Siberia's basement ceiling. Got that? My homework is to string the remaining thirty-seven pieces I have, on six-inch loops of fishing wire. I'm in charge of the six-inch loops.
I'm going to plug the show a bit later, but... there will be 1300 pieces of chocolate, hand-strung, hanging from the ceiling for consumption. Beat that.