Starbucks Card and The Great Chocolate Search

The other day, our older son Jericho came to me with a question.

Would I give him the $6 he needed for a Tech Deck toy he wanted if he gave me the remaining $8 balance on his Christmas Starbucks card from his aunt Karen?

"If you think that's a good deal, I suppose I could do that. (You know, I didn't want to take advantage of him, seeing as I'd get the better end of the bargain.)

"Really? You'd do it?"

"If you're sure."

He gave me a hug, "Thanks, mom!"

And so the transaction was made.

So earlier today after running some errands, I decided to stop off at Starbucks to use part of my recently acquired $8 balance.

I ordered my coffee frap, and Judah's Horizon Vanilla Milk. When I got up to the window, I handed her the card Jericho had given me. "Could you please check and see how much is left on this card?" I asked, feeling hesitant since it wasn't my own carefully monitored card.

She swiped it, and moments later said, "Um, there's a zero balance"

That dirty dawg! "Oh, my older son is in SUCH trouble", I said, handing her some cash instead.

She seemed kind of chatty and personable, and so I elaborated, "He told me there was $8 on that card, and traded it to me for $6 cash! He's SO busted."

She laughed. "April Fools?"

Oh, man...I hadn't even thought of that!

Could my sweet and innocent 11 year old be that devious and lowdown as to cheat me out of $6?

Nah. I don't think so.

So on the way home from school this afternoon, I casually mentioned, "By the way...about that Starbucks card? I stopped by to use it earlier today, and there was a zero balance..."

His eyes widened and he looked horrified. "Oh, man!" He thought for a moment, "I must've given you the wrong one out of my wallet!"

Now I knew about the card from aunt Karen, but where is this kid getting these other Starbucks cards? And come to think of it, why does my 11 year old even need overpriced beverages that include coffee?

I wasn't even allowed to touch the stuff until I was a teenager, and even then my grandma still pooh-poohed the notion. "It's not good for growing bodies" she'd say, and instead offer us Postum or Ovaltine. We couldn't have tea, either, come to think of it.

Jericho was horrified that I would even suspect he was trying to chisel me out of $6. "Mom, I swear...if I can't find the other card, I'll pay you back out of my account. Serious...that card aunt Karen gave me had $8 left...the Starbucks lady told me last time I used it."

I could totally tell that he was telling the truth, because his nostrils didn't have the telltale flaring.

When did he use that card from aunt Karen last, anyway, because it wasn't when he was with me! And the kid never takes his wallet with him anywhere. How is it that he's suddenly hanging out at Starbucks without moi?

Sheesh...when did my 11 year old suddenly become a teenager?

And how do I make it stop?

:: :: :: ::

Apparently, due to the fact that I got Jeff pretty good with my April Fool's day prank, and because he still hasn't forgiven me for posting here about how he doesn't hide my Christmas gifts well enough...Jeff decided to exact his revenge yesterday.

Wouldn't you know, it was on the very day I was having major chocolate withdrawls.

Which happened because we made a pact between us that in April, we were going to give up chocolate completely.

Here I was, only 2 days into the month, and already feeling totally deprived, and wanting it all the more. Isn't that so pathetic? (My spirit is willing, but my flesh is sooo weak!)

To rescue us from ourselves, Jeff had taken it upon himself to hide the leftover Easter chocolate so that he wouldn't be able to get to it at work (and hopefully forget about it once he was home) and to keep it from me while I was home all day.

And it worked!

But that didn't stop me from searching all day long to find where he'd hidden it, because my chocolate radar told me that there was indeed chocolate in the house...and my chocolate radar is never wrong. Especially if it's chocolate wrapped in foil.

Anyway, I searched my storage units, an armoire, and in several craft towers (which have about 8 drawers each, stacked vertically, filled with all manner of arts and crafts and scrapbooking supplies.)

I searched the shelves in the master bathroom where I keep extra T.P. and feminine products. And the cabinets where I keep the towels and cleaning supplies. And the drawer tower in our walk-in closet where I keep extra razors, the first aid kit and the hair clipper set.

I searched in pots and pans and crock pots and the cupboard where we keep all our baking sheets. And behind foodstuffs in the pantry. And on the very top of our kitchen cupboards.

I searched through drawers, and my cake decorating toolbox, and in mixing bowls. And bins and tubs the whole house over.

I searched under beds. And in closets.

I searched through both boys rooms, the cabinets in the laundry room...on my bookshelves behind books.

I searched through every drawer and cabinet in our house.

I wanted that chocolate in the worst way I was very thorough.

And I must give credit where credit is due...Jeff really outdid himself with the hiding.

I'd searched high and low, in every nook and cranny...all to no avail.

Finally, in a measure of desperation, I texted Jeff at work. "Must have chocolate" I typed in, like a dying desert sojourner, crawling on hands and knees in search of life-giving water.

He texted back, "Look under the straws in the kitchen drawer. I left four there for you."

He'd thrown me the proverbial bone.

Except that it was chocolate.

Four individual Dove chocolates with almonds.

And that should have been enough, I know. But the dark, smooth chocolaty goodness only whetted my appetite for more.

It's almost that time of the month, for crying out loud...I need chocolate! How can he deprive me so?

I texted him again, "Who appointed you keeper of the chocolate, anyway?"

By this time, I'm perturbed. Because I'd looked everywhere, and hadn't found it.

He texted back, "Hid it pretty good, didn't I?!"

Smart alec.

So I looked through everything again in hyperspeed, retracing my steps, just to be sure I left no stone unturned. If I didn't find it this time, I'd just stop by the store and buy some on my way home from picking our son up from school.

Because of course by this time, I'd worked off the calories from those first four chocolates. My proverbial 'tank' was on E.

On the way out the door I called him at work (his school day had just ended). "You da man, Jeff. You have stumped me completely. I give. Now where. is. the. chocolate?"

Because I humbly bowed to his superior hiding skills, he laughed, very proud of himself. "Go to the chrome rack in the kitchen."

"But I'm on the way to get Jericho" I said, a twinge of whine creeping into my voice.

"Oh, good, then I won't tell you" he says with a sinister laugh. "More for me!"

"That's so not fair! I'm PMSing, and this constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. Where is it? Just tell me, please?"

Clearly, there was some cheese out there needing to go with that whine.

"It's in Jericho's orange insulated lunch sack."

Which has sat in it's usual rumpled condition on that chrome rack next to the Costco sized box of plastic forks since the day Jericho decided it was uncool.

Hidden. in. plain. sight!

The dirty dawg!

I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to let him in on where I hid the stash of my "naughty" (double chocolate almond) biscotti. At only 140 calories and 3 grams of fat they are a safer bet than most candy bars...and are capable of curbing a rabid chocolate craving.

I know, because I picked up a Costco size tub of them on the way to collect Jericho this afternoon, lol.

Guess we'll have to shoot for May to begin our chocolate-free diet.

April Fools!

When I was a girl, my dad would come into the kitchen on April 1st and ask, "Hey, kids, who'd like doughnuts for breakfast?"

This was a very rare treat in our somewhat health-foody home, so naturally all four of us would clamber excitedly, "Me! I do!"

"Me, too" he'd say wistfully. "Too bad we don't have any!" And then he'd throw back his head and laaaaugh. "April Fools!"

It seemed like such a cheap shot, but really, we were no worse off than we had been moments before when we were thinking it would be the usual ho-hum Life cereal or Cheerios.

It was just his way.

Apparently I've inherited this same obnoxious trait, because my dad's lame April Fool's Day 'jokes' always triggered a day spent trying to 'trick' the others in my life in some way, just to be able to say the coveted words, "April Fools!"

For us, it was usually just stupid stuff. "Hey, what's THAT?" I'd say, looking all wide-eyed scared into the woods behind my sister at the bus stop. Her eyes would widen, and she'd slowly turn around. "Ha ha, made you look. April Fools!"

This morning I got my son up as usual for school. "Guess what? You don't have to go to school today!"

He looked up excitedly, "I don't?" No doubt he figured it was something to do with us being down to one car again.

"Just kidding." I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. "APRIL FOOLS!"

This is the response I got from him.



I'm thinking it was similar to the ones my dad got from us all those years ago.

Apparently he didn't inherit this same obnoxious trait.

****update****

Or maybe he did.

On the way to school, I had to stop and get gas. Jericho was trying to tell me to stop at a gas station I never go to because it would be easier to get right back on the road.

Like Kramer from Seinfeld, I like to push it to the edge where getting gas is concerned, so I thanked him for his advice but told him that I was going to go to the other one closer to the school. That particular parking lot is easier to get in and out of.

"But that place is closed now, mom."

For a second I thought about it, and realized it had been over a week since I'd passed that particular station, what with Spring Break and all. Maybe it had closed.

"It is?"

Jericho pipes up, "April Fools!" and threw his head back and laughed. "Got you good, mom!"

I guess now he'll probably be off trying to trick everyone at school, too.

It's true what they say...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Guess we're all a bunch of April Fools, lol.

****updated yet again****

Just got a call from my hubby.

Him: "You dirty dawg!"

Me: Laughing uproariously (because what other way is there to laugh?).

Him: "You're just lucky I double-checked my Text Messages, because I was just on my way out to get you..."

Jericho and I plotted a good one to play on dad while on the way to school this morning. When I dropped Jericho off, I texted Jeff, "Thanks a lot for leaving me with the gas tank on E this morning. I ran out of gas on the frontage road."

I hadn't really.

A few moments later, I texted again, "April Fools!"

Me: "I got you good!"

Now I just have to guard against retaliations for the rest of the day. Seems there is a fine line between practical jokes and crying wolf.

Oh, but it was worth it.

Harrowing Hair Horror Stories (A Long Tail, er, Tale)

I'd be the first to tell you that I'm a total frump when it comes to my hair. I strive, and I strive for fab, but always (where my hair is concerned) I revert to saved.

My default hairstyle? Long layers.

I know, real exciting stuff, huh?

Well it gets better. I don't dye, either. (gasp!)

And I'm in my mid 30's (swoon!)

Yes, my friends, I have silver highlights all through my once dark brown tresses. (Tresses sounds so much more sophisticated than plain old hair, don't you think?)

To remedy this, I used to keep a jumbo black Sharpie in my cosmetics case for quick touch-ups on the grays if I was going somewhere special because, well, it was just worth the extra effort.

This worked quite well until I had my toddler, at which point the grays began coming in at an alarmingly fast rate, and the smell of the Sharpie from trying to cover all those new grays triggered one of the worst asthma attacks I've ever had.

Thankfully, by that time, my hubby also had a sprinkling of grays coming in as well, so I didn't feel quite so conspicuous.

For a while there I began to worry that folks would think I was his mother. Okay, maybe not quite so bad as all that (and please understand that I don't mean that my mother in law looks bad...on the contrary, she looks pretty good for her age!). What I mean is that no woman wants to look older than her man.

But there is a valid reason I don't dye. The first time I tried any type of hair color treatment was after we got our tax-return a few years ago...

I went to MasterCuts. I guess that was so that one of their, uh, Masters could have a go at it.

My regular stylist had moved, so I ended up with a guy who had kool-aid red and black hair, cut in kind of a hacked-off, choppy style, telling me the whole sordid story of how he'd just broken up with his girlfriend as he foiled my hair. I also learned that this same stylist moonlighted as a repo guy.

Needless to say, Steel Magnolias this was not.

And to be honest, I was a little nervous how my hair was going to turn out.

At that time, blonde streaks through dark hair was all the rage (which was exciting stuff, because there was a day when there was very little you could do with dark brown or black hair).

However, after enduring the hour long foiling process and hearing way more about my stylist than I ever wanted to know, then sitting under the hairdryer that dried out my hair (and eyes) for another half hour, I learned that my hair was apparently the type that could never truly go blonde without breaking off completely. Too fine and too dark, or something like that.

So I ended up with caramel colored highlights (or so he said to try and make the color sound better than it was) that just never gave me the look I'd been shooting for (and took forever to grow out).

When I got tired of the 'caramel' streaks in my hair, I went to a high-dollar salon to have it dyed back to my regular color. The girl was a color specialist, and the dye was a perfect match.

Unfortunately, she dribbled it all over my scalp with what looked like the envelope moistener bottle my grandma used to have in her junk drawer.

The liquid not only stained my skin that color wherever it dribbled out around my hairline, but it caused my entire scalp to burn for the next two days (even after a couple of washings), and was tender for about a week afterward. Apparently I also have a rare (and previously unknown since I never dyed my hair) allergy to hair dye.

For a few days there, things were kind of dicey, as I was concerned that I might lose my hair like that one other time...

Which would be the unforgettable church retreat debacle of my sophomore year of high school, when a stage light positioned atop a tall stand (with a ridiculously small tripod base on the floor) suddenly tilted and began to fall my direction like an evergreen when the logger yells out, "Tiiiiimber!"

The three inch diameter aluminum pipe lamp post glanced off my forehead. My knees buckled. I fell to the pew in sitting position, and the kids who had witnessed this pointed at me, gasping, as my eyes (which somehow managed to stay open) followed the stars and birdies that were buzzing around my head. And let me tell you, a blow to the head will cause a person to see stars and birdies just like the cartoons.

But I ended up being hailed as something of a hero, as my thick scull was what prevented my friends further down the pew from getting hit with the hot, sharp edges of the actual stage light.

All I can say is that it was the Grace of God that prevented me from looking up right then, or I might have been hit on the nose, and would henceforth probably not be here to tell my tale.

Fortunately for me, there was a medical professional in the house.

The camp nurse came rushing over, and after a preliminary inspection, which included checking my pupils (which had miraculously regained proper focus) and asking if my head hurt, told me I was probably just a bit dazed and that she didn't believe it was a concussion.

Within about 15 minutes, I felt remarkably well, except that my scalp had an odd prickly-tingly sensation (kind of a cross between when your foot has fallen asleep and goosebumps) which stayed that way for hours afterward.

After she cleaned my just-below-the-hairline abrasion (atop the enormous bump) and put a band-aid on it, I was sent back to my cabin to get ready for dinner.

And because there were lots of cute guys there (I was a good girl, but I'd be the first to admit that it wasn't just my love for Jesus that drew me to those high school retreats), I took extra pains.

I felt compelled to do this, because I wanted to look my best. I was also a bit self-conscious about the hush that I was sure would fall over the chow hall as I walked in, and people would point and whisper amongst themselves, "That's the girl who got hit in the head by the lamp post!". I didn't want to look like a fool, because, you know, I could help it and everything.

But as it turned out, I missed dinner altogether. Because as I was pulling a brush through my hair back in my cabin, hanks of it fell out in my brush. Think "Locks of Love" hanks.

And I freaked out and ran crying hysterically back to the camp nurse, who told me my "scalp done went into shock".

I'd never heard of such a thing before, and still kind of question how legit her 'nursing' credentials were, considering that somewhere in her care of me, she told me she worked on the sidelines at her son's football games taping ankles and such, and had seen guys get up and play the game with far worse than my injury, (which I perceived then to mean that I needed to suck it up) and remarkably, I never got so much as a concussion (or so the same woman told me) and I've been fine ever since.

And remarkably, I never got so much as a concussion (or so the same woman told me) and I've been fine ever since.

But getting back to my hair, I've just never been the salon-cut type of gal.

I guess that's always been for financial reasons.

When I was one of four stair-step kids at home, my dad solved this expensive problem by telling my two sisters and I that he 'loved' long hair, and that if we all grew our hair down to the "crack in our fannies" (and yes, sadly he did use that exact terminology), he'd give us each $5.

I'm proud to say it took me five years, but I earned that $5 (and no doubt saved him a mint in haircuts during that time). My sisters meanwhile went the home perm route.

But even now, salons being like a fine restaurant, I'm more the drive-thru kind of gal, frequenting places like MasterCuts or SuperCuts for my quarterly trims. In and out of there in 20 minutes for $20 is more my speed. And speaking of speed, with cars that are always needing something done to keep them limping along, I can hardly justify $75 on a salon treatment for hair that will need a touch up again in just a few weeks.

MasterCuts is about the cheapest you can go, shy of cutting your own hair (which I also tried once, and do NOT reccomend). Unless, that is, you have someone to trade off trims with...

Out of sheer (or perhaps that should say shear) desperation, my sister Jami and I did this when we were in high school.

It was a classic case of "I'll trim yours if you'll trim mine".

She did mine first (and did a fine job, I might add) but when it came time for me to reciprocate, she ended up with the short end of the stick. And I do mean short.

I learned my lesson that time, though. Never, EVER allow your sister to watch Jaws while you are cutting her hair.

Because undoubtedly, in spite of your careful ministrations, you will become so engrossed in the movie, that during that frightening 'DA-dum...DA-dum...DA-dum' scene where Jaws suddenly jumps out of the water, you will shriek, and inadvertently take a full three inches more off than you intended to. At an angle.

Your eyes would widen in horror staring at the back of her head, but you would refrain from saying, "Uh oh" and would instead hurriedly try to correct the damage (which is difficult work with a dull, old pair of scissors that were, in a previous life, your mom's sewing scissors).

And then your sister, would get suspicious of your sudden silence, and would glance down just then and see huge, longish gobs of hair, her hair, on the floor around her feet, and would f-r-e-a-k out.

You would feel so bad that you would apologize profusely, even going so far as to offer for her to just hack off some of your much longer hair if it would make her feel better. But she would instead go to her room and cry bitterly for the next fifteen minutes, and would never, ever, ever let you come close to her head with scissors again.

And you would suffer guilt over that for years. Which is why you would never pursue beauty school. Because you just couldn't bear the stress of getting someone else's hair just so, or the guilt of botching someone's hair just before prom or a wedding or something.

So, with my career as a hairstylist coming to such an abrupt end before it had ever really begun, I instead turned my attentions to barbering...

And for a while, practiced on my brother and some guy friends from church, and did a pretty fair job of it. I actually had some repeat customers.

But the biggest feat of my haircutting career, my piece de resistance. was when I was asked to cut my dad's hair.

Now you must understand that my dad didn't trust his hair to just anyone.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure this was because he was at that time notorious for desperate to hang onto this longish strand of maybe fifty hairs spread out single file that he would sweep around and up over the back of his head in a feeble attempt to try and hide his bald spot.

This might loosely have been described as a comb-over, more regularly taking the form of a party streamer, shaking loose from it's nest and flapping in the breeze like Old Glory.

But not to worry, he kept a little black comb in his back pocket, and routinely swept the errant strands around up and over the top at the slightest breath of wind.

I guess, being the 1980's girl that I was, I felt that my dad's hairstyle was, "like, totally Seventies!" and I worried that folks would begin lumping my dad in with the dude who worked at my grandma's favorite grocery store Piggly Wiggly, and had a comb-over/toupee thing gelled in place over his (substantially larger) bald spot like a cap.

Even though I was surprised that he entrusted his hair to moi (never mind that times were tough then, and family finances were tight), I took this job very seriously, and did my best work ever.

I carefully clipped around that hank of hair, pretending it didn't exist like the 'elephant in the room', but alas, after a brief moment of hesitation, I took some advice gleaned from a song on the radio in those days, 'seized the day', and snipped off that hideous hank of hair, quickly dropping the thin, pitiful remnants through the gaps between the boards on our back deck.

It wasn't one of my finest moments, but when I was done with his haircut, he was none the wiser. Peering at his reflection in the glass sliding door he remarked at what a great job I had done with the cut.

It did look good, and I couldn't have been prouder.

That is, until he pulled out his trusty comb and went to sweep that tail around his head and found it MIA. Gone. No more. Nada.

I can't recall for sure, but I seem to remember my punishment for that little lapse in judgement costing me an overnighter at my friends house, and then being told I had to mow the entire front lawn. All 2 acres of it. Beginning right then, and it was nearly dusk.

But I didn't let that little bump in the road discourage me. In college, I set up shop in the student center laundry room of my college and while my weeks worth of laundry was being washed, I cut hair on the side.

And more often than not, it was (literally) cut just on the sides.

You may remember the infamous "mullet" cut, which I would not go so far as to say was a 'style'.

Those weren't just Georgia waterfalls, people. I stand in testimony to the fact that Minnesota waterfalls were also alive and flowing in the early 1990's, although by then, the length in the back had shortened considerably, redeeming the style if only a little.

My (now) hubby was one of my repeat customers in those days. And like many other guys at our college at that time, wanted that cut (business in the front, party in the back, baby).

Incidentally, he wore that style up until one of his students called him "Slater" (from the old TV show Saved by the Bell) ..a couple of years after that show ended.

But I digress (finally, a place to insert this word!).

I had one major salon cut as a child (so I'd look like Dorothy Hamill), one in high school (to look like Cindy Crawford), and one in college which included the coveted spiral perm. Then there was a break of several years where my hair was all one length and I did nothing to it, and finally... the one salon dye job that nearly caused me to lose my hair for the second time.

I'm getting a little desperate here. I still have a two year old in the home, and dread the thought of someone asking if he's my grandson.

Where salons are concerned, I suppose I have a bit of a phobia. A little frission of fear courses through me that the careless 'hair' mistakes of my past will finally catch up to me. That I'll be on the other end of the shears, and walk out of there looking like a half-plucked chicken.

I'm in need of hairapy.

Wordless Wednesday

Flu Haiku, Miscellaneous, Re-Celebrating Easter

Sick of being sick.
Laundry piled high again.
Losing weight a plus.

:: :: :: ::

Now I've seen it all...

Virtual Bubblewrap

Hmmm...nice, but isn't some of the novelty lost by not actually happening across a piece of the stuff yourself once or twice a year and getting to feel the bubbles pop as you squeeze them between your fingers?

:: :: :: ::

While I was sick in bed the other day, little Judah came running in to inform me that "Woody no want to go to Jo-Pan!" He looked so stricken, as though we needed to help.

In my flu misery, I didn't catch much except the Japan part. "Huh?"

It took me a few moments to realize he'd been watching Toy Story 2 again and was just feeling a little sad for poor Woody, who just wanted to get back home to Andy and not get sent away to the Kunishi Toy Museum in Japan.

:: :: :: ::

Due to the flu, we missed hosting our annual egg-dyeing party with relatives the night before Easter.

Easter morning, I was able to drag my carcass out of bed long enough to prepare the dyes for the boys to still do that, then to take pictures of them finding their Easter goodies.

Before we moved into this house a year and a half ago, I sold all the baskets we had at a garage sale. Last year at Easter, the boys got gift bags with goodies in them.

I had to laugh though, because daddy was in charge of everything (having recovered a couple of days ahead of me), and so this year, in a pinch, the boys ended up with Easter mixing bowls.

It's a bummer being sick over a special Holiday. We felt like we really missed out on the always joyous Easter services at church, celebrating the Resurrection of our Lord with other Believers, and of course the big family get together with all of the inlaws.

It was also my intention to get Judah his own Bible for Easter. A couple of weeks ago while heading out the door for church, Judah handed Jericho his Bible and then looked up at me and said, "Wheow Judah Bi-bow?" all forlorn, because he knows he should have one, too.

So tonight, since I'm finally feeling halfway decent again, I think we're going to re-celebrate Easter. Tell the story of Easter right, have a nice homecooked meal, and maybe go out and get Judah his very own Bible.

And maybe try to figure out what to do with all. those. eggs.

FrumpMama Reviews Children's Movies

Our toddler came down with a little flu bug, and spent most of yesterday sick on the sofa.

Isn't that the most pitiful thing you've ever seen?

Yeah, well whenever daddy is home (which he is this week), I'm pretty much just scenery around the house. Totally taken for granted.

But when either of our boys is sick, who is the one they want tending to them hand and foot?

Me. And only me.

So yesterday, little Judah looked up at me with glazed over eyes and said, "Mama...thit he-ow" (which in toddlerese is, "Mama, sit here") and he pointed to the narrow little strip of sofa next to him.

And he didn't want me to leave him all. day. long.

Thankfully daddy was home, and went out and rented a pile of movies for us to watch while I held him for most of the day.

Among them...the Bee Movie. Which the boys both enjoyed. Jericho especially, judging by his new artwork already displayed at our family gallery refrigerator door.

I, however, am more than a little weary of it after three showings.

And am I the only one, or did anyone else find it disturbing that the protagonist bee Barry had a relationship with a human woman that bordered on romantic (enough that her significant other seemed to view Barry Bee as a threat)?

We also watched Charlotte's Web a couple of times through. This was a movie I used to love as a child.

Seeing this one on the heels of the Bee Movie, however, revealed a disturbing trend, yea, perhaps even an agenda among children's animated movies...the propensity to turn children against the very food on their plates.

No wonder we parents have so much trouble getting our children to eat their food!

What child wants to eat bacon or pork after watching poor Wilbur's plight in Charlotte's Web?

And what child is going to want to eat honey after watching the Bee Movie?

Or beef or milk after watching Barnyard?

Or chicken and eggs after Chicken Run?

Or venison after seeing Bambi?

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I'll give you that this is one of the more difficult lessons a child has to learn in life. It's a hard day when they are informed that their hamburgers came from those docile looking creatures they pass while on drives in the country...or that their chicken drumsticks ultimately came from those adorable little fluffy yellow chicks they saw at Easter.

But as much as we try, we can't--and probably shouldn't--shield our children from every difficult thing in life if they're to ever learn to cope on their own one day.

My husband, whose family raised an occasional beef cow, remembered his own coming-of-age the summer he was 7 years old. After feeding and petting Brownie the cow one morning, his mom took him along with her on a daylong errand running-shopping trip. That evening when they returned home, he saw that the pasture and the pen were empty, and little Jeff knew that Brownie's time had come.

Sensitive to her younger children's feelings, his mom very carefully planned the menus over the next few days to exclude the freshly frozen beef now stocking their chest freezer. This all changed a week or so later when Jeff's older brother Butch came home for a visit and a good home cooked meal. Their mom broke out the best steaks, and planned one of the delectable meat-and-potato kind of meals she is famous for. The family sat down to ask the blessing, and when little Jeff noticed what was on his plate. He gulped and looked at his next-up sister Tammy who had had just glanced up mournfully from her own steak and said, "This is Brownie...we're eating Brownie!" and they both burst into tears. His mom even got a bit teary after that episode, but his dad and brother, hardworking guys that they were, promptly dug in.

Jeff survived unscathed, as have millions of other children, and by the time future beef cows Spot and Baby Bull were butchered, it was no big deal to eat a steak the day they took delivery of the flash-frozen beef. Even knowing that it came from a cow that once grazed in their pasture.

Getting back to children's movies, another prevalent theme is the concept of humans and animals conversing with each other. This always intrigued me as a girl. Especially considering I told everything to my beloved cat Smokey.

However, after watching these movies repeatedly, I became downright critical of their content.

Spelling Spider aside, the scene that takes the cake for being over-the-top in Charlotte's Web was when folks from all over came to see the Zuckerman's "Radiant" pig, and there was Wilbur showing off below the web by dancing back and forth in the barn entrance on his hind feet!

Only to later be hailed as "Humble". What was humble about that?

And why do male cows in Barnyard have udders? Isn't that a bit confusing to the kiddos?

Sick to death of such movies and not wanting anything to do with talking Cars, I requested one of the movies I'd been wanting to see in the theater, but due to being surrounded by males continually got vetoed.

A new release just hitting rental stores a couple of days ago...one that was purported to bring out sighs and the belief in Happily Ever After.

Disney did not disappoint.

From the first moment of the movie to the very end of the special features, I was absolutely Enchanted.

Even when my oldest son laughed and made fun of various elements of the movie as being 'so unrealistic'.

Funny, I didn't see him complaining when the bees were taking humans to court in Bee Movie, or when the Barn Animals were having a Hoe-Down and ordering pizzas in Barnyard!

And speaking strictly from my graphic design and artistic point of view, might I say that the pop-up storybook element was FAB?! They captured the essence of pop-up books-turned-animated-turned real-people movies brilliantly.

And that is the opinion of someone who has spent countless hours creating many one-of-a-kind pop-up cards over the last 17 years or so.

I absolutely loved this movie, however satirically Disney-esque.

Amy Adams, nailed the part of the fanciful dreamer and cartoon-come-to-life Giselle. James Marsden and Timothy Spall did a terrific job as Prince Edward and the queen's steward, respectively. Incorporating elements from several other Disney Princess movies really made this movie sparkle.

In spite of my dislike of dancing pigs, I had no problem whatsoever with Giselle's beautiful vocalization out the window, and the creatures that were summoned to help her clean up the messy home of our fine hero (played by Patrick Dempsey).

Except perhaps the cockroaches. Well, that and the wad of hair from the bathtub drain. But hey, the cleaning song was great.

I loved Giselle's wide-eyed innocence, and love-love-loved the scene in the the Law Office when she learns the cold reality that her hero's client was separating from her husband forever and ever...

...soooo many things about this movie that I loved.

Since watching Enchanted, I've found myself gliding into my kitchen (where the acoustics are best) and singing the little aria that Giselle sang out her window...

...and dancing around the living room in slow ballroom moves while holding our youngest son, and singing the musical numbers from the movie.

In fact, it was so delightful, I think I'm going to go and watch it three times in a row, lol.

Wordless Wednesday: Oblivious To The Danger