piano woman

If you didn't already know, if you turn the word "gold" around, it spells "blog." I actually wasn't aware of this when I named my blog, but now I have an even deeper sense of respect for my intuition.

So, since Domestic Gold is all about keeping you updated with what's the haps in my house, I present you with a video that's been in heavy rotation lately.

Let me preface this by saying that Mazzy, when she arrived at school last Friday, was singing this song loudly and clearly enough that her teacher (who's in her fifties) asked me, "is she singing Carly Simon?"
Yes, yes she was. And here is a clip from a collection of Saturday Night Live music performances that I don't mind watching every time Mazzy asks to see it, which is at least once a day.


and, yes, that's Chevy Chase on the cowbell.

smashing pumpkins

I bet you're wondering what we're looking at in this picture.

OK, I'll tell you. It's a picture of a pumpkin patch. The interesting thing about this particular patch is its location, you don't normally see pumpkin vines growing on hillsides. It's not that they don't do well on hillsides, au contraire, look at the picture. It's just that usually they're in big, flat fields. And with good reason.

Well, I'll tell you something else.

This particular hillside is located directly behind my house. Right outside my bedroom, actually. Here's a picture of that...

Not one, but two quite large pumpkins have broken free and come careening into the wall right behind the head of our bed. Which makes the month of October "Heart Attack in the Middle of the Night Month" in our house.

Here's the most recent culprit------------->>

The pumpkin, not the baby, I just threw her in for context and cuteness.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

I think we've all learned our lesson here.

Historics

O, Christopher Columbus, it is so hard to imagine what our lives would be like today had you not set sail from Spain, landed in the Bahamas, mistaken it for the East Indies and ushered in that famous and shameful era of disease communication, robbery and manslaughter which was the founding of this great nation.
We've truly come so far.

Friends, Aromas, Countrymen

Lend me your ears.


There's a skunk, or more likely a family of skunks, living in the space beneath Mazzy's schoolhouse. The school is run by a wonderful group of 60's-era hippie women, and it could be safely assumed that one or most of them have had a friendly relationship with a certain sticky green plant at one point in their lifetime. Perhaps even still. In keeping with their personalities, the curriculum they offer is one that attracts a free-living, way-left liberal type of parent. So, when I walked into the cubby room the other day and the skunky smell had me thinking about brownies and papers and rainbows and, well, I was looking for someone around to give a wink and a nudge. Surely they recognized the smell, too.
Well, yes, they did recognize the smell. But apparently I'm the only one who was thinking of "the" skunk and not "a" skunk. So I'm the naughty parent. But I'm not the only one.

Me and Mr. Jones

We got a thing goin on.

Well, sometimes we do. And sometimes we, um, don't.

I certainly can't speak for any other men, but I've had a small epiphany about mine. He has a weekly cycle. A circadian rhythm of sorts that starts over about every seven days. It's like this: Monday, mama's not gettin any love; but by the time Saturday rolls around, I can hardly move without stirring a certain kind of excitement.
Other people have noticed something similar and have written songs about it. There's "Manic Monday," "Rainy Days and Mondays," "Monday, Monday" (ba-dah, ba-da-da-dah), but perhaps most appropriate is "It's Friday (I'm in Love)." In Office Space there was that whole "looks like someone's got a serious case of the Mondays" thing. It's all the same blues, it's just that in my house, it manifests itself in lascivious behavior (or the lack thereof).
I can't tell you how glad I am to have unlocked this mystery. It used to cause friction (hee hee) of another kind in our relationship. Now I know it has very little to do with me, and now I have a perfect revenge for those PMS comments. This, of course, is why I'm sharing my new findings, as it could be a weapon in any woman's arsenal.
It could be that we're getting older. Lord knows, it used to not matter at all what day it was. I can take heart though, that even though he's knockin on 30's door, he's still going to be 19 every Friday.

you're a big girl now.

Today was Mazzy's first day of preschool.

I rolled her out of bed, got her dressed, brushed her teeth, and (here's the best part) dropped her off.

The nursery school she goes to is a 3-year old's paradise, full of play-dough and little furniture and blocks and books and costumes. She gave her teachers their apples (why don't kids do this anymore?), and after a quick kiss and hug for me & Eden, it was "bye, mom!"

I walked outside and fought the urge to go back in to kiss her again and make sure she was OK, then I realized I was about to start crying and ran to my car so no one would see me fall apart. I must have checked the clock every three minutes to make sure I wasn't going to be late to pick her up.

It's only three hours three days a week. I'm sure eventually I'll figure out what to do with myself.

9 o'clock and all's well

Shower Time!