rosa_acicularis: (fozzie bear)
This is an entry containing two things:

Thing 1: Angst.

Thing 2: Pitifulness.

Thing 3: Charm.

No, that's three things. Hold on -- I'll come in again.

i cut for angst and pitifulness. )
rosa_acicularis: (pivot)
I have some complaints. Not terribly rational complaints, but complaints nonetheless. They are as follows:

1. Why, oh why am I always the last one to watch a new episode of Who? *glares at download*

2. After a day spent begging every likely employer in the neighborhood to at least glance at my resume, I have come to the conclusion that I will be sad, nannying, and broke for the remainder of my colorful but ultimately fruitless life.

3. I was supposed to sit for Kate and Sophie tonight, but their mom just canceled.

4. I should move. I need to move. I want to move. I want to move into the pretty green house on the pretty street and live with nice roommates who are nice and not imaginary like the ones I have now. I met the roommates today, and they were nice and thought I was nice. The landlord? I'm not so sure. (Doesn't she realize that I am universally loved wherever I go?)

5. The NBC website won't let me watch 30 Rock or The Office without skipping in a way that is sure to send me into a homicidal rampage.

6. My left foot itches.

7. I've run out of complaints.

rosa_acicularis: (one facepalm bibliophile1887)
In the middle of heated game of Old Maid (which, I'm only just now realizing, is rather brutally apropos to the subject at hand), five-year-old Chloe turns to me and says, "You know, when you're a grandma, you won't be a babysitter anymore."

I consider this for a moment, admittedly somewhat bewildered. We'd been discussing grandparents not long before, so the comment wasn't totally out of the blue, but I couldn't quite follow her logic. After all, I know for a fact that her family's backup sitter is an elderly neighbor. Eventually, I decide on a noncommittal,  "Probably not." We continue the game.

Not long after I find myself stuck with the Old Maid card yet again, I say, "It's possible, Chloe, that I might not ever be a grandma."

She smiles at me - the sort of smile I get from kids when I try to convince them that elephants sleep in trees or that the moon is made from recycled styrofoam cups. The "Oh, you silly grown up" smile. "Nuh uh," she says, the very picture of authority. "You'll be a mom, and your kid will be a mom, and then you'll be a grandmom."

"Well, that's how these things usually work," I agree. "But what if I don't become a mom?"

She thinks about this for a long moment. "You're right," she says finally. "You might die first."

 
rosa_acicularis: (dorothy)
Three, to be precise. And not one of them is over the age of ten.

Three of the girls that I watch regularly just saw the 1939 Wizard of Oz for the first time. Understandably, they were entirely enraptured. As I understand it, the post-viewing conversation went something like this:

rosa_acicularis: (tempest)
We've been enjoying a week of almost sinfully beautiful weather in the City of Roses. Sunny and crisp and blue, blue skies, and like true Oregonians, we greet every strikingly clear morning the same way: "Oh. Well, it's definitely going to rain tomorrow."

Radio deejays, weathermen, the teller at my bank and the guy who spends the night at my bus stop each give this dire prediction every day, and next morning they are always proven wrong. It makes you wonder - just what does a city have to do to get a little gray, miserable weather around here?

A note on my continued adventures in Nannydom: I spent a good part of the day corralling a house-full of small children (and suffering defeat after crippling defeat at Candyland, but we won't go into that) and aside from sniffles and skinned knees and the occasional misdirected mudpie, everything went remarkably well. But just before dinner time, the situation got a little...wild. It reminded me of something my very favorite teacher used to say when our middle school science lab would get out of hand. "Tread carefully, Rose," he would say, voice just above a whisper. "The natives are getting restless."

(Actually, he called me Rosie, but that nickname and its associated angst deserves an entry of its own, I feel.)

In retrospect, I'm not entirely confident that this is the most politically correct way to express this particular sentiment, but now that I spend most my time surrounded by runny-nosed pygmies who cheat at Candyland and occasionally try to eat my hair, I find myself caring less and less about such things.

In the end, dinner was served and order restored. The parents arrived to collect their spawn and I returned to my apartment and my dog and other things that remind me just how very long ago it was that I sat on a rickety stool in Mr. Burroughs' science lab as I spent my free period dissecting owl pellets and chatting with my very favorite teacher (and the closest thing, I told him once, that I'd ever had to a father) about the skulls of rodents and maps of the stars.

Then I got online and checked my friends list, scrolling past entry after entry about fandom and Rose Tyler and the series that is to come, and I said to myself: "Tread carefully. The natives are getting restless."
rosa_acicularis: (the master)
Had the following conversation with a five-year-old today:

Me: Whoa there, buddy. You can use the scissors or you can run in circles like a demented whirligig until you vomit, but you can't do both.

Ben: Can too. My mom says.

Me: Really. Your mom says you're allowed to run with scissors?

Ben: All the time. (turns to three-year-old brother) Right, Will?

Will: (nods emphatically) Yeah. We get chocolate ship [sic] cookies if we do.

Ben: But only if we keep our eyes open really wide.

Me: *headsofa*

In other news, freaky surrealistic Do I Twist, Do I Fold dreamfic has consumed my every waking thought, and is near completion. How depressing is it that this twenty-five page fic has taken me nearly seven months to finish?

Pretty damn depressing, I should think.

Also, has anyone else ever noticed the rather alarming sexual tension between Tigger and Rabbit? Or is that just me, exhausted and overexposed to children's television?

rosa_acicularis: (tennyson)
The latest theological ruminations from those crazy prepubescents I roll with:

You can stop pondering the existence of a higher power - these kids have it sorted. Yesterday they were kind enough to inform me that God isn't a real person. (No, not even at Christmas.) Heaven and hell are just grown up pretends, and hell is a bad word you shouldn't say even if you shut your fingers in the front door.

I swear, I did nothing to provoke this discussion. I was simply asked why anyone would actually want to eat matzah. So I told them the story of Passover, emphasizing that it was just a story to some people and to others something really important. I kept it as neutral and straightforward as possible.

Then Kate, Sophie, and Chloe launched into a debate on miracles, nasty Egyptian kings portrayed by attractive bald actors (okay, so my version of the story may have gone a bit off topic in places), and who the tartar sauce was this God fellow, anyway?

I, very carefully, said absolutely nothing.

Thus, we learn that God is not dead, but rather just about as "true" as the evil witch in Sleeping Beauty - in other words, something grown ups talk about to scare you because sometimes being scared is fun, but really everyone knows that it's all just pretend. So, God? Definitely not real.

Superheroes they weren't quite so sure about.

Eventually, they came to the conclusion that superheroes do, in fact, exist - they just don't live in Portland, because nothing bad happens here.
rosa_acicularis: (inara)
Unbelievably, I have some unscheduled time on my hands this evening. I was supposed to be working, but the family canceled due to some unexpected vomiting on the child's part.

Poor little guy. Good timing for me, though. Yay vomit!

For this means I get to stay home and watch Bones tonight, which is beyond exciting. I love Halloween episodes. (I was, however, grieved that the Slutty Pumpkin made no appearance in last night's How I Met Your Mother. I now fear that I won't be getting a Halloween Office either. Come on, sitcoms. Get with the program.)

As expected, Bones was beyond brilliant. I love the writing on that show so much, I can't even begin to tell you.

Also, a Doctor Who vid rec! Simply brilliant Rose-centric vid set to Talking Heads' "And She Was". Awesome song, awesome vid. By [personal profile] fan_eunice.
rosa_acicularis: (ringo)
In Shirtless Irish Houseguest (aka the Meet Cute of Infamy) News:

So Kate's parents hired me to stay at their house last night to watch Kate and her older sister, as their mom and dad were going out of town and Shirtless Irish Houseguest (herein referred to as Niall, for that is his name) was on call at the emergency room all night. The girls were great, we had a wild fun time, yadda yadda yadda, and then at about midnight Sophie (Kate's eight-year-old sister) came downstairs and informed me that she'd woken up and couldn't fall back to sleep. Being the consummate professional that I am, I have a long list of tactics for just such a situation. An hour later, I had exhausted them all and found that the only thing that would send the little Sophster off to dreamland was if I sat on the floor by her bed - perfectly still - and held her hand. For an hour and a half. And let me tell you, that kid has one hell of a grip.

The trouble was, even after she finally fell asleep her hold on my fingers was like iron. Every time I attempted to disengage, her death grip only tightened. So I was slowly attempting to extricate myself, gingerly freeing one finger at a time from the tiny, bone-crushing hand of doom, humming "Hey Jude" (the lullaby that had finally done the trick) under my breath to cover the sound of my shoes squeaking on the floor when I heard a chuckle. A distinct, man-like chuckle that was absolutely not coming from Sophie.

rosa_acicularis: (romana shoe)
I spent about an hour today discussing the work and lives of the Beatles with two four-year-olds.

I love my job.



In unrelated news, this sign recently appeared on campus. I know not why; I know only that my Freudian English lit lovin' brain thinks it the funniest thing ever. (Also, I love pink.)
rosa_acicularis: (five)
I am American, 21st century Mary Poppins; this is certain.

In academic news, in class this morning I dropped my pen as my prof was taking roll. When he came to my name, I popped back upright in what must have been an unintentionally amusing manner, because he laughed and said, "Oh, Rose. You are such an lolcat."

The combined hilarity of the fact that my beloved prof (who specializes in the Victorian novel and is endlessly fascinated by Harry Potter fan fiction) not only knew what an lolcat was, but decided that I resembled one, sent the class into a shocked silence.

My prof then made a strange face, held up his hands like claws, and said, "My favorite literary tropes. Let me show you them."

It was, perhaps, the single greatest thing I have ever witnessed.

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