Troublesome Little Elf

By now, everyone is probably sick with all the Elf on the Shelf photos floating around the Internets in December. But I was going through my Christmas photos (finally!) last night and doing my monthly external back-up when I happened to spy this one photo of Rupert's Shenanigans that I absolutely loved.

Rupert is our Elf on the Shelf brought to Cyra when she was in kindergarten, before the huge Elf on the Shelf bandwagon was formed (OMG please tell me that doesn't make me hipster!). After a pretty rough November in which said kindergartener was misbehaving, Santa brought Rupert to keep an eye on things.

For the most part, Rupert just moved around, watching...watching...like the burning eye of Sauron. That is until 2012 when Rupert decided to have some "fun" and got into plenty of trouble: TPing the Christmas tree, dying all the milk green, using all of Cyra's bodywash taking a bubblebath. You get the idea.

This past Christmas was probably the last that Cyra will be a firm believer in the Magic of Christmas. And Rupert, willing shenaniganer that he is, was a willing participant. That is until some of the other toys in the house got tired of his crap...

A Paizo Goblin, a Dalek, and Sebastian from Black Butler all ganged up on Rupert and Irish Princess Barbie (Rupert's love interest) and tried to feed Rupert to a collection of evil monster miniatures.

Cyra, the calm, collected kid that she is, came out in the morning and just shook her head.

"Oh, Rupert," she said softly, "What have you gotten yourself into now?"

The Piano Guys Made My Daughter Cry and It. Was. Magical.

Shortly after Cyra started taking violin lessons last year (her school offers a Strings Alive program so for a nominal $10 fee she gets weekly lessons and a violin to borrow) she was searching for violin videos on YouTube and she discovered The Piano Guys. If you have never heard of them, please stop reading right now and go check out a couple of their videos. This one is Cyra’s favorite or this one or maybe this one…heck pretty much any and all of their videos could qualify as her favorite! It just depends on her mood that day. Anyway, go click some links, I’ll be here when you get back.

We good? Did you check them out? Amazing, right?

Anyway, for months Cyra would watch theses videos daily. She began to talk about learning to play the cello.

“I bet I could learn cello easily now that I know violin,” she’d tell us.

She talked about cello so much it broke my heart because at the time I was still unemployed and we couldn’t afford lessons much less a $600+ beginner’s cello. Nonstop all through the winter, through the holidays, and well into spring we heard about cellos and The Piano Guys.

In early spring, The Piano Guys announced their upcoming US tour and Cyra nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that they would be playing the Florida Theater in Jacksonville, a mere 40 minutes away. Still unemployed, I told Cyra that we really couldn’t afford the tickets, but really, I knew that I would save every penny I could to get her there even if it meant doing without Internet, power, or skimping on groceries for a few weeks.

But with gainful employment comes financial wiggle room and after I’d gotten a few paychecks into the bank, I told Scott I was buying tickets. That was in May. Coincidentally, the scheduled stop in Jacksonville fell just a few days before Cyra’s birthday.

Perfect timing. She’d be thrilled with her birthday gift.

All that spring and summer Cyra talked about cello lessons. And the more she talked the more Scott and I really started playing with the budget to see if it was possible. I priced cellos online, I looked around town for a music store that offered cello lessons.

This wasn’t a passing fancy for her. Cello was her dream.

When school started in August, her music teacher told Cyra that she might not have returning students join the Strings Alive program. Cyra came home devastated. Violin, you see, was her gateway to cello. She knew that if she couldn’t take cello lessons then at least she would still get the practice with a string instrument.

That same day, I emailed the one store in town that offered cello lessons. A few phone calls later, Cyra had a meeting with the instructor, an older gentleman whose preferred instrument was the cello. He was thrilled that such a young girl would be interested in cello.

When we went to meet him, he measured her to see what size cello she would need and watching her touch and hold a cello for the first time cinched the deal for me. Her smile just about engulfed her face and she couldn’t stop trembling.

“If I made a down payment, would you be able to let me make payments?” I asked the instructor softly as I stared at Cyra pulling the bow across the strings.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Done. Let’s do it,” I said.

Cyra looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “Really?”

I nodded. “For really.”

I came home with a cello that barely fit in my car, weekly lessons that worked with my work schedule, and a little girl in complete shock.

(And now I do something that I don't often do: post photos of the girls. But today I feel it is important for the story.)

Cyra and her cello, first day home. Possessive doesn't even cover it.

First time practicing before lessons had even started. By the end of the first evening home, she had a reasonable sounding Twinkle Twinkle going. All that violin work really helped!

Let’s return the The Piano Guys.

Around the end of September, Cyra once again asked me if we could go to the concert. I looked her dead in the eye and I lied to my child. Lied through my teeth knowing that what I was about to tell her would sadden her.

“I’m so sorry sweetie,” I said softly, “With Ashleigh’s wisdom teeth and buying the cello…we just don’t have the money for it.”

Her face fell a little, “I understand, Mommy. It’s okay.”

And not another word was mentioned. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, the day of the concert, Cyra came home, scuffing her feet, frowning, and irritated.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” I asked as she sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around me.

“I had a rough day, Mom,” she sighed.

I nodded sympathetically as she told me about her day. “Sounds like you could use something to cheer you up.”

She nodded. “Maybe a nap too.”

I laughed, “You’re that tired?”

Another nod.

“Well, maybe this will help.” I grabbed the envelope that held the tickets for over 6 months.

She raised her eyebrow at me.

“Open it up.”

She pulled out the printed tickets and scanned over it without really seeing it.

I pointed to the top, a small gray rectangle with the concert information. "Read in here,” I told her.

She read.

She looked at me.

She read it again.

“Mommy, I think you better cover your ears because I am about to squee like I have never squeed before.”

She jumped off my lap, jumped around the living, the walls echoing her squees of joy.

At the Florida Theater, after buying $70+ of merchandise, including a book of sheet music, Cyra, Ashleigh, and I sat quietly as the house lights fell dark. Cyra took a deep, calming breath as The Piano Guys walked onto the stage.

It. Was. Magical.

The first three songs, Cyra cried. Tears of happiness and joy streamed down her face and her quiet snuffles made me wish I had brought some tissues. Ashleigh and I couldn’t stop smiling.

These guys put on a great show! Aside from the music, which is phenomenal, they were personable, humorous, and humble. Sprinkled throughout the show the guys talked about their background together and the piano player, Jon Schmidt kept telling the audience that Steven Sharpe Nelson was the number one cellist in the world. And while I absolutely loved the show, the best part was watching Cyra’s reactions: amazement, admiration, hero worship.

Afterward, I told Cyra we could hang out in the lobby to see if they’d come out for autographs. She about fell over.

We waited in the lobby for a good 45 minutes. After most of the crowd cleared out and there were only about 30 people left in the lobby, the security guys had us line up.

And then, there they were. Cyra, who had been containing her excitement as best she could earlier, broke into a jittery dance and tears welled up again. As the line moved forward, Ashleigh and I tried to keep her calm.

“Can’t blame her,” Ashleigh said, “I would totally be fangirling as hard if I was meeting someone I really liked,”

Then it was her turn. And surprisingly she stayed put together.

“You’re going to need the table,” she told them as she handed over her items for signing.

The guys were gracious, polite, and asked her all sorts of questions.

“Do you play an instrument?” Jon, the piano player, asked.

“Yes,” she replied, “The cello.”

“You are my favorite person so far tonight,” Steven, the cellist, replied. Apparently, everyone they had met had claimed the piano as the instrument of choice. “How long have you been playing.”

“I just started this year,” she paused. “Because of you.”

“Wow. That’s fantastic!”

I swear he was flabbergasted.

“Did you name your cello?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Did you name it Steve?” Jon Schmidt asked.

“No, Agent Romanoff.”

“Whoa. That’s a serious name.” The guys laughed.

Cyra nodded.

“When I grow up,” Cyra said shyly, “I’m going to be right up there with you,” she looked at Steven, “I’ll be the second best cellist.”

Steven looked down at her with a smile, “No. You be the number one cellist. I’ll be second.”

Oh. My. Heart. It pretty much exploded.

Pictures all around and then our turn was over and once again Cyra could not keep the joy contained and she burst into tears again. She was floating as we walked back to the car.

“Best day?” I asked her.

“Best. Day. Ever,” she said through her tears.

From left to right: Al Van Der Beek, Steven Sharp Nelson, Cyra, Jon Schmidt, Paul Anderson

N is for Nobby

I had a tough time with a slang term for N. I was unimpressed with some of the words and phrases I found and so I settled for nobby. It’s one of the few words on the list so far that I have never used personally and can’t recall ever having heard it used before either.

I am not a fashionable person. My sister threatens me all the time about submitting my name to that make-over show. I wear things that are comfortable, clean, maybe wrinkled, but decent. I wore professional style clothes when I taught but I was able to keep it to a business casual level: khakis, polos, and a few skirts and blouses.

Since I’ve been unemployed, my wardrobe shrank quite a bit and I tended towards my comfort clothes: jeans and tee shirts. Looking decent is different to me than looking fashionable and for as long as I can remember decent won over fashion any day of the week.

When I was hired a few weeks back, I had a quite the panic attack because I really didn’t have anything left in my closet that could pass muster for professional. The polos and khakis I wore in my last years of teacher are what I wore to run around town in, to pick up bags of potting soil at Home Depot, to bake in – do I need to even say how grungy they have become?

Dragging Ashleigh and Cyra with me to the mall to pick out a few outfits to get me through the first few months of the new job was critical. I know what I am comfortable in, but I have no clue as to what might go together – and have you seen the spring colors? Neon pink and orange, lime greens and Caribbean blues. And what happened to just plain solids? Everything is patterned; everything has doo-dads and froo-froo on them. I can’t stand the stuff!! I wanted to find plain things that would easily mix and match. Ashleigh and Cyra insisted on pops of color and no khakis!

An hour later, with Ashleigh and Cyra by my side, I managed to pick out a number of interchangeable outfits. And I kept within my limited budget. I won’t claim to be nobby yet.

Now if only I could find out where Ashleigh hid my khakis.

Nobby is an adjective from the 1850s that means fashionable.

Example: Nora wasn’t especially nobby, but nearly everyone noticed when she started wearing shoes from Nine West.

  

This post has been brought to you by the Letter N and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Friday Photos

On their birthdays I encourage the girls to choose an activity for us to do. A few years ago it was camping. Camping in November and then again in January. Fun but cold. For Cyra's birthday this past November she opted for bowling.

There are three things that we know about bowling:

1. We love it!
2. We rather stink at it.
3. Scott isn't allowed to partake in the consumption of alcoholic beverages. Period.

How much polish do those floors get and can I get someone to do my floors like that?

STRIKE!
Sort-of.
Almost?

Is there a rule that all bowling alleys are a bit on the grungy side? I don't mind really, for the most part, but come people! GooGone is a major staple! Also there was a huge label on this ball return warning of the dangers of sticking your hand in the hole to retrieve the ball yourself. (Did that just come out naughty? Or am I just being thirteen again?)

I love racks of things. Guns, books, crafts, antlers, bowling balls. I especially love how all the balls gleam under the lights.

Heh heh. Gleaming balls.

I am the first to admit my immaturity.

And finally, my little decade old peanut with her big feet. Rather like a puppy I think! Big feet and gangly legs, she's got tallness in her genes and boy! are her growth plates working overtime lately. She can wear a ladies size 7 shoe and she is nearly as tall as I am.

Yeah, I bet you caught on to the date of these photos. November. Yup. I admit it. I pulled old photos. Ancient ones really. Almost four months old. But to be fair and honest, the past few weeks have been boring photo-wise.

Friday Photos

Alright so these are older photos from December, but I figured that since Blogger and I were taking a break and all, I'd go pull some funny shots I would have shared if I could have.

Every year I buy a gingerbread house kit from Wilton. I know I might lose some of my baking cred here, but I really don't like gingerbread all that much and for me rolling out dough is a pain. The kits are relatively cheap, offer an afternoon of shenanigans (and yes, it always ends with shenanigans!), and the end result is a pretty "creative" center piece during the lead up to Christmas.

This year I got the mini village kit with four tiny houses and another kit to make trees. What started out are a serious endevour quickly degenerated into a nonpareil food fight with Ashleigh and I slinging sprinkles across the table at each other. Cyra was definitely not amused. In fact, she was so serious and determined to make her two houses perfect that she didn't even throw one sprinkle! And she yelled at us to "stop acting like children."

Jeesh. Ten year olds are so bossy.

This was our finished project. I used two lemon Starbursts and molded them into stars for the tops of my trees. Ashleigh and I got crazy with the decorating and ended up making a mess.

Notice how the right side looks as though it has been attacked by the Cake Boss if he had broken all his fingers and his arm in three places and was psychotic. Yeah. That's Ashleigh's side.

Now the problem with leaving out an edible decoration, we've discovered, is that our dog Junie likes to counter surf. Nothing is safe. And though she has gotton much better about behaving now that I watch her like a hawk all day and keep the counters and tables free from temptation, I knew that a tray laden with sweet cookies and icing would be her downfall. In order to keep our village safe, each night I would slip it into the oven.

Surely nothing could go wrong with that plan.

Nothing that is until a few days before Christmas when I forgot to take it out and preheated the oven for dinner...

A delicious sweet smell wafted out from the over as I was chopping up a pepper. And all of a sudden it dawned on me: The Village!

Pulling it out of the oven I couldn't help but laugh. Cyra came running out to see what was so funn an nearly burst into tears.

"It's okay," I told her. "Look, only the icing roads and my stars seem to be melty. It'll be fine."

Unless, of course, you're the dingbat who pops it back into the oven that night and promptly forgets about it until Christmas morning, when once again, the oven required some preheating. This time, however, distracted by the chaos of the morning, I didn't remember until I was about to put in the blueberry stuffed French toast.

"Cyra," I cried out, "I did it again!"

"MOMMY!" she hollered from the living room as she rushed into the kitchen shiny new presents temporarily forgotten. Her shoulders sagged a little in defeat and my mom stifled a giggle. I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter. Cyra glared at me for a second before running back into the living. She returned a few seconds later camera in hand.

"Here," she sighed. "You might as well take pictures of it."

One of Crya's houses completely collapsed, but the others stood up well.

My handmade stars, on the other hand, didn't fair as well.

The lesson? Always check inside your oven before you preheat it. Or maybe just don't store things in your oven in the first place.

Friday Photos

Hey all! Me again back with a post. Remember way back when in November when I was doing the Photo a Day challenge and blogger so kindly informed me that I had reached my storage limit? I got quite frustrated and angsty and I took an Internet break.

We didn't break up mind you. I just needed some...space. I certainly don't need an apology from  Internet not will I bore Internet with a 30 page letter expressing my disappointment.

This is what I have discovered: in order to resize the photos on my blog, I would have resize them in picasa then delete from the original post and then repost them. That's a lot a photos, people, over 600. But I found a loophole. If new photos are resized under a certain limit then they don't count towards that 1 GB of space we are allocated.

So here I am testing that theory.

Back in November Cyra found a turtle in our yard. A beautiful turtle that, if it wasn't a protected species, I totally would have adopted then and there because, I loved him right away.

Meet Wilfred (or Winnefred) the Florida Box Turtle

PS - Yay! It worked!!

Photo A Day - Grateful

As I spent yesterday and this morning in the kitchen, struggling to cook while dizzy on pain killers (don't worry, my girls helped me out a lot!) I thought about what photo I'd use for today. But then I realized in a moment of clarity (or as the pain meds were wearing off) I might not be able to post a photo here (Oh Blogger how you disappoint me!) but I probably wouldn't have posted a photo today anyway because I don't do people photos here all that much.

And that, my friends, is what I am grateful for: people.

Amidst the potatoes, pies and turkey, I knew that even if I hadn't a single thing to put on the table today except a bowl of cold gruel, I would still be grateful because of the people I have in my life.  By nature, I am a people person. I like to pretend otherwise, but I really am. I like having people around me and with me. I like sharing my experiences with my friends and family. People make each day fuller especially when they are people you love. And I love me some amazing people!

Today as many gather around the dining room table to celebrate a completely made up holiday I am grateful for:

My Friends - Sara, Natasha, Amanda and Ericka. BFFs who've shared with me good times and bad, dreams and disappointments, celebrations, quiet times and adventures.

My Family - My Mom and Dad, my sister, who at the drop of a hat will be by my side if I need her, my brothers who grew up watching over me and protecting me even as I tried my hardest to annoy them, my extended family that I don't get to see very much but when I do it is as if no time has passed by and the family I married into, the strangers who opened their homes, hearts and worlds to me simply because I married Scott.

My Husband - We have been together for half my life and I can't imagine anyone else I'd want to share my love and life with. He loves me in spite and despite all of my flaws and idiosyncrasies. He makes me feel beautiful on days when I feel ugly, he holds me when I am sad or scared and he dedicates his life to making mine wonderful.

My Girls - If there is a center to my universe it is clearly my girls.  I am beyond grateful to have two compassionate, intelligent, playful and beautiful girls. From the very second I knew I was carrying them I loved them unconditionally. They make my world better. They make me a better person. They make me who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it today!

Photo A Day - Happened This Weekend

It was Cyra's birthday this past week. A whole decade old. I find it quite disconcerting how quickly she is growing, not just in age, but in maturity, attitude, and jeesh! height! The girl is one inch shy of five feet. She is six measly inches shorter that I am. When she was born she was long and skinny and the doctor and nurses commented that she'd probably be pretty tall. At each yearly check-up she is off the charts in height.

Sigh.

We didn't do much for her on her actual birthday since it fell during the week. She requested an oh so fabulous bacon wrapped meatloaf for dinner and instead of cake I made tapioca and stuck a candle in it. The cake would wait until Saturday when she would have her party.

This year she opted for a small one with her two best friends. And that was fine with me (budget, budget, budget!). The only thing she really wanted to do was to go bowling. She talked about it constantly for weeks leading up to her party. So as soon as the girls arrived, off we went to the bowling alley!

I love bowling balls. Shiny and colorful! Just begging for a photo op!

Cyra's big feet! No, really! She's already wearing a women's size 7!

The cake, of course, came later!

Chocolate cookies and cream cake with cookies and cream vanilla frosting and (not pictured) a scoop of cookies and cream ice cream. Can we sense a theme here?

Monkey in the Tree

NOTE: I am prefacing this story with the following disclaimer: I do not believe in ghosts, spirits or apparitions. I never have. And despite this story, I still don't. Zombies, aliens and Bigfoot, however, I (mostly) completely believe in.

Kirsten leaned against the cool stone wall next to me. Cyra snuggled in her arms. The ghost tour had gone on longer than a two year old was capable of walking and between Kirsten, Mom and me we had taken turns holding the increasingly temperamental toddler.

The tour guide was telling a story about a Spanish woman who was buried in the cemetery behind us. Ashleigh leaned against me half listening and my nephew fidgeted in the crowd. Cyra kicked her feet against the wall making her shoes light up. Earlier, the tour guide suggested that ghosts like to follow lights, like those in her shoes, home. She wiggled and Kirsten switched her to her other arm.

“Do you want me to take her?” I asked.

Kirsten shook her head. “She’s fine.”

Suddenly something caught Cyra’s eye and she stared intently into the live oak looming over our heads. Fascinated she watched the upper branches for a few minutes while the tour guide droned on about the funeral parade of the Spanish lady.

“Look Auntie,” Cyra squeed pointing into the tree.

Kirsten and I both looked where she point. Branches and leaves swayed softly in the night breeze, but we didn’t see anything interesting or unusual.

We nodded and played along. But she was not fooled.

“No! Auntie, look.” She insisted, “See the monkey?”

I chuckled. “A monkey?”

She nodded staring into the tree. Kirsten and I exchanged a look. Do you see anything, it said. No, nothing.

Cyra giggled and laughed. “Silly Monkey.”

A few other people on the tour looked over at us and we hushed Cyra.

“I don’t see anything, sweetie,” Kirsten said.

Cyra took Kirsten’s chin in her hands and turned her head to look into the branches. “Look Auntie, the monkey!”

Again, my sister and I studied the dark branches above our heads to no avail. Whatever it was that Cyra was seeing we couldn’t spot. Cyra continued to giggle softly at the monkey’s antics while we stood there. I didn’t mention, nor did my sister, who also knew, the story of Little James.

James died in 1877 at the age of 5 years and 10 days old. According to legend, he often climbed in the large live oak that sits just inside the Tolomato Cemetery. He would scoot out onto the branch that drooped over Cordova Street. One day, he slipped and fell to the street below. His family buried him in the shade of the tree he loved so much.

Over the years, most stories about James come from children who would see a little boy dressed in “funny clothes” playing in the tree and cemetery. Some ghost hunters claim to have heard a child giggling in the cemetery. Most often though he is seen scampering in the tree.

Kind of like a monkey…

The tour guide finished up her story and we moved down along the street. Cyra waved goodbye to the monkey in the tree. The rest of the tour was uneventful and when we got home Cyra giggled as I put her to bed.

“What are you laughing at sweet heart?” I asked.

“Silly monkey, Mommy,” she giggled and twisted on her changing tabled looking around the room.

“Well,” I said with a big pretend yawn. “Tell the silly monkey it is your bedtime and he needs to be quiet.”

She did so and I read her a quick story and tucked her into bed monkey almost, but not quite forgotten.

A few days later, just after Ashleigh had left for school, Cyra sat on the couch watching Arthur while I got ready for the day. I stepped into the bathroom and started doing my hair when I heard a loud shrill giggle.

“Mommy!” Cyra yelled.

I stuck my head around the corner. Cyra, still on the couch, pointed at the T.V. now off.

“Did you turn it off?” I asked coming back into the living room.

Cyra shook her head.

“Let me have the remote, Cyra.” I said holding out my hand.

Cyra pointed at the top of the entertainment center. The remote sat in the exact spot I had placed it a few minutes before. I gave Cyra a look. I didn’t think she could reach up there yet. I better push things back farther, I thought.

I turned the T.V. back on and returned to the bathroom. The second I stepped in, I heard the T.V. click off again, followed by another giggle. I went back into the living room. Cyra sat in the same spot kicking her feet. I looked at the entertainment center. The remote was still in its spot.

“Cyra stop playing with the buttons on the T.V.” I scolded slowly. She knew how to turn the T.V. on and off with the buttons on the base of the set. But I knew I didn’t hear her get up. And certainly, I thought, she didn’t have enough time to get to the T.V. and back without me seeing her.

I picked up the remote, turned the T.V. back on and walked back to the bathroom, remote still in hand. I hadn’t taken more then three steps when the T.V. turned off again. I stopped and turned around. Cyra smiled.

“I bet someone has a universal remote outside,” I said but I I didn’t really believe that. I walked to the apartment window anyway and looked downstairs. How creepy it would be if there was someone outside. The yard was empty.

The T.V. turned back on. Then off. Then on again. Cyra laughed and jumped off the couch.

“Monkey! Monkey! Silly Monkey!” she giggled.

The set went off again. I stood in the middle of the room, remote in hand. I turned around the whole room slowly.

“Alright.” I said to the room, “I get it. Now, please stop.”

I turned the T.V. back on and waited. After a few minutes passed, I went back to getting ready. The T.V. stayed on. Over the next few months the T.V. would occasionally turn itself off and on. When it happened, we made sure to acknowledge the little monkey Cyra claimed was doing it. And after a while it stopped happening altogether.

James' headstone. I will feature other photos from the Tolomato Cemetery on Friday.