I don’t know about you, but I have a terrible time convincing anyone in my family to wear bug spray. It just smells so bad. Sadly, that stink is why bug spray works.
My sister and I have been talking about medical things more than usual lately, and since she also inherited our family’s wildly roving mind, somehow we got on to the topic of leeches, and whether this medieval practice was still popping up in modern medicine.
This morning when I came downstairs for my necessary cup of coffee, I spied a bedraggled brown lump floating on the surface of the swimming pool. On closer inspection, it proved to be a dead mouse. Which brings us to today’s question: “There’s a dead mouse in the pool. Is it time to freak out?”
Thinking about composting your potentially E.coli infected romaine? Do me a favor. Don’t. At least not this time around. Here’s why.
Earlier this year, The Ten-Year-Old’s fifth grade class spent 18 hours learning what it meant to be sailors in 1906 as part of the Age of Sails program at the San Francisco Maritime National Park. Ever since then, she’s been reading everything she can get her hands on about life on the sea between the mid-1800s and early 1900s. After learning that the entire crew of the Franklin Expedition of 1845 died in one of that century’s greatest tragedies, the Ten-Year-Old naturally wanted to know why.
One afternoon after a rough day at school, The Ten-Year-Old tried to calm herself down by picking Canelo up for a hug. He was having none of it. The Ten-Year-Old was disappointed when Canelo ran off instead of giving her the reassuring head-bonk she was looking for, but as always, her curiosity won out. “Mommyo, can cats smell stress?”
How did grapefruit get their name? Why do cats have three eyelids? And why are they called wisdom teeth anyway? Today I answer multiple questions briefly in the hopes of clearing the decks a bit before summer.
After reading The Night Before Christmas, The (then) Five-Year-Old and I had a conversation about the perils of smoking, and whether Santa smoked. The (then) Five-Year-Old has obviously been busy processing this information because a few days later she asked me, “Why doesn’t Santa have heart disease?”
Over dinner one Sunday night, the subject of ketchup came up. Specifically, the various ways of storing it. Mommyo had always refrigerated ketchup bottles after opening them, so The Nine-Year-Old was somewhat shocked to learn that once upon a time (and even now in certain households) ketchup was not refrigerated.The Nine-Year-Old, aghast, “Not even after you open it?”Uncle Phil, Ketchup Maven, “Not even then.” Naturally, The Nine-Year-Old wanted to know: Do you really have to refrigerate ketchup?
Back when The Eight-Year-Old was only five, we spent a lovely afternoon building a village for her toy dinosaurs out of Lincoln logs. After carefully installing a sunlight in the roof of her sauropod stable, my daughter asked, “Mommyo, did any of the Presidents not like toys?” When I said that surely they all played with toys as kids, she clarified: “No, Mommyo, I’m talking about grown-ups. Did any grown-up Presidents not like playing with toys?”