i ran

today’s lesson in parenthood: you’ll never know the fun you’ll have discussing middle eastern issues with a nine year old.

BC and i were driving to camp this morning. i didn’t have my mp3 player hooked up in the car, so we were at the mercy of the radio. i couldn’t bear to hear the mattress discounters commercial one more time, so i put on NPR. you never know what you’ll get on NPR, one of the reasons i like it so much. and lately, BC is interested in the stories she hears, so i turn it on every now and again.

of course, today, the big news is that iran continues to test more missiles. what’s iran? BC asked after hearing the scary tale.

once again, i was thrilled to be the parent who gets the good questions, not like BS, who gets questions like: daddy, why can’t i have candy in the morning? and: daddy, is it dessert night? nope, i have already (poorly) tackled evangelicals and abortion, homosexuality, and menstruation. why not middle eastern politics? it’s definitely a different tack than the other conversation we seem to be having this week: whether or not BC is chubby or too heavy, as the other little girls have a harder time picking her up at cheerleading.

of course, you know what i told her about that: those girls need to start lifting weights! (as if.) i also seriously told her about how its difficult when you’re a curvy and muscular tween girl. a lot of other girls haven’t started developing yet, and you feel bulky and cumbersome.  i still remember thinking how huge i was in comparison to the other girls when i was her age. it was, essentially, muscular me versus the twig girls.

i worked myself into some borderline eating disorder moments because of it, and i’ll be damned if girlfriend goes down that path, too.

but back to iran, the topic most mothers and daughters are chatting about these days. well, i started out in a ::cough cough:: reaganesque tone, iran is a country in the middle east. for awhile, they were led by a US-backed ruler called a shah; i suspect he wasn’t nice to all of the people. then, some religious people kicked the shah out of the country. they took american hostages out of the US enbassy there. i still remember as a girl watching the news. as the announcer would tell you how many days the hostages were in captivity.

the president at that time, jimmy carter, tried to rescue them, but the attempt was a disaster. the day that ronald reagan became president, they released the hostages, which was great for them and obnoxious for president carter. i guess the people who took the hostages might have thought that reagan would have done something scarier to get the hostages out, so they released them.

anyway, there are a lot of very religious people there now who don’t like people who don’t follow their ways. (yes, i was very, very close to my separation of church-state speech here, but i hadn’t had coffee yet. i spared the child.) so right now, people are concerned about iran having missiles like these because if they have them, they can hit a lot more targets.

like us? she asked.

well, not us, i continued, but israel. they don’t recognize israel and don’t like israel, so people are afraid they might send those things toward israel. israel is surrounded by a lot of other countries that don’t like it, so israel would probably act pretty tough in return if iran sent missiles over.

well, that would start World War III, girlfriend said.

sometimes, i marvel at her ability to grasp things. yes, it could, i replied. but there are a lot of people who don’t want that to happen, and so people are keeping an eye on the situation.

where do they test them? she continued.

i don’t really know, honey, i replied. maybe the desert, maybe the ocean. i don’t know.

does it cause big waves in the ocean? does it hurt the fish?

there are so many questions you wish you could answer as a parent. and then of course, there are questions you have that are also sadly unanswerable.

with apologies to sting, i hope the iranians love their children, too.

one, two, tell me who are you? THE BEARS!

girlfriend is attending cheerleader camp at a tony private school. i balked for a few years, sending her to the YMCA until i was completely fed up with the lack of supervision, the lack of a program, and the lack of working transportation. (when she and her fellow campers were stuck on the fairfax county parkway one of the many days that the Y’s bus broke down, i pretty much had had it.) i have come to the conclusion that the private school’s camp isn’t that much more expensive than the Y (they feed them lunch and snacks! they actually do what they say they will do! (i.e., counselors actually teaching them cheers! supervises them! keeps them from killing each other!)), and considering it is a bit of a higher quality program, i am okay with that. (note that girlfriend is not attending camp all summer, which helps in balancing costs around here.)

the best part, of course, is that BC’s best friend in the whole entire universe is also attending with her. she will also attend girl scout sleepaway camp with her later this month. this is incredibly cool, as these girls live in separate towns and don’t actually see each other much each year.

so yesterday, i dropped my girl off, sunscreen and all, to cheering camp. i should point out that i was one of the girls who threw items at the cheerleaders. i sneered in their general direction. in short, i was not a cheering fan, in spite of the fact that my dad was on the pep squad when he was a young man about town. [insert vision of will ferrell here.]

when i picked her up at day’s end, she was a little annoyed. all of the girls, save for her buddy, knew each other already. some attended the private school during the school year. and they were… wait for it…stuck up.

no? cheerleaders at a private school…stuck up? no way.

[snerk]

i gave her the talk. you all know the one: don’t worry about any of the other girls. do what you went there to do: learn to cheer. have fun doing that. if the girls continue to be jerks, ignore them unless they’re hurting you (in which case, involve the counselors.) etc. the same self-talk i did when those men weren’t too happy about my presence in the weight room. she was still a little nervous about going today.

fast forward to pickup time today. how was your day, i asked, nervous about the answer.

mama, she said: i was a FLYER!

come again?

for those of us who spent little time with those popular, pert ladies in our high schools, a flyer is the person who gets thrown in the air.

i was a little scared because if someone dropped me, well, that would have hurt. but they didn’t! and there was one girl who is so big, the counselors couldn’t hardly throw her, but not me!

i guess that means today was a better day, huh?

guilty pleasure monday: treat her like a lady (cornelius brothers and sister rose)

some of you out there in cyberspace-land were not born in 1971 when today’s

guilty pleasure monday

came to the fore. so let me school you, sistahs and bruthas, on this groovy tuneage by the cornelius brothers and sister rose.

the cornelius brothers and sister rose, a family act from dania, fl (motto: we let 13 year old girls dressed like ‘hos like a young wreke in to watch jai alai), had their biggest hit, too late to turn back now, in 1972. the song is an utterly forgettable and annoying ditty. but treat her like a lady? admittedly, i, too, missed this one the first time around.

lucky for me, i am related to none other than my middle brother larry (motto: no 1970s song is too sappy; no fiscally conservative wingnut is too crazy), dean of 1970s muzak music. one time, my darling big brother made a CD mix for me which included a crazy semblance of songs. one of them was treat her like a lady. i imagined at first the song made it on the mix simply because the lyrics are so uncomfortably sexist. see, the singer is giving his man-friends advice on the allegedly weaker sex:

All my friends had to ask me

Somethin’ they didn’t understand-a

How I get all the women

In the palms of my hand, now

And I told them, to treat her like a lad-ay

(You got-to, got-to treat her like)

Um-hum all the best you can do

(Treat her like, you got-to, got-to treat her like)

You got to treat her like a lad-ay, she’ll give into you

Ah-hum now who can see, you know what I mean?

oh, so THAT’S what those guys are doing in those classes! you know, the ones where they learn to pick up women? (oh, that’s going to give me all sorts of strange search results. all i need to use are words like naked and off we go into wacko land.) what a novel concept: listen to a woman and she might start to feel appreciated. only, silly girl, you thought he really was interested in you!

(of course, if we are the weaker sex, then how come you don’t see women going to classes learning how to pick up men?)

ahem.

anyway, back to the song. i thought at first my brother had put that song on the CD just to piss his feminist sister off. but no, he hadn’t. it’s just a song with a killer hook. no malicious intent. how it didn’t become a bigger hit, i just don’t know.

yep, i guess larry isn’t so bad. he also introduced me to the dead kennedys. [punk alert, punk alert: offensive language. don't put on the speakers in front of the kiddies or the boss.] so sometimes, no matter how different, brothers and sister can work together and even learn from each other. maybe we never had a hit record, and maybe he’ll never see eye-to-eye with me on political issues, and maybe i’ll never forget how he used to use me as the human punching bag during 1971; but larry and i actually get along now.

just something i’ll have to point out to BC the next time she wants to put her brother in a headlock.

guilty pleasure monday: american tune (paul simon)

in honor of the US’s big birthday bash later this week, i’m sharing:

guilty pleasure monday: the patriot version.

(no, we’re not listening to god bless the usa; i think that song and lee greenwood should just be launched into iraq, where the people there will surely think of something suitable to do with them both.)

american tune, a song paul simon produced sometime just after he split with partner art garfunkel, is a very simple, but moving song. i often listen to it; i imagine if woody allen had been a folky, this would have been the song he would have sung. the narrator (who allegedly wrote this, depressed after Nixon won re-election in 1972) is world-weary, wondering what’s gone wrong, a thought sadly still relevant.

what some don’t realize is that the song is an old, old tune, a re-working of a J. S. Bach chorale from St. Matthew Passion (which J. S. ripped off from Hans Leo Haßler, who wrote it as Mein Gmüth ist mir verwirret, which of course translated means my ferret is on fire. kidding on the translation, though the ripoff is true. shame on you, johann.)

this, in turn, has been reworked throughout the ages for other purposes. one of my favorite reworkings, originally sung by the weavers and unfortunately only available as a 30 second sample, is peter, paul and mary’s because all men are brothers. despite the somewhat dated lyrics (yellow, white or brown? not sure where that would put me in the color lineup. someone hadn’t heard of estee lauder’s palette then, apparently), the lyrics still grip me and ring true:

My brothers and my sisters forever hand in hand
Where chimes the bell of freedom there is my native land
My brother’s fears are my fears yellow white or brown
My sister’s tears are my tears the whole wide world around.

(see, i like me some folks tunes about brotherhood.)

which brings us to rhymin’ paul simon, who apparently followed the tradition and ripped the tune off for himself, calling it now an american tune (because apparently early folk incarnations, citing brotherhood, wouldn’t do for america: brotherhood, apparently, is not american. ripping things off and calling them american? now, that’s as american as the original colonists themselves, isn’t it?)

and his tune is personal. it’s not about the greater community of humankind, like those early, dare i say it, socialistically-minded folkies sang. it’s about how he is sad. and tired. and introspective. it fits in nicely with the me generational thinking of the 1970s, which blossomed in the 1980s and which hasn’t quite progressed in much of our populace in modern days.

ah well. happy birthday, america; rest up. we’re not always on the side of right, but we’ve done okay historically, and there’s always time to change the road we’re travelling on today. we have a lot more fight ahead of us to make the world a better place. and we have a lot more fight in us to do the right thing and make it so.

let’s roll.

We come on a ship we call the Mayflower,
We come on a ship that sailed the moon
We come at the age’s most uncertain hour
And sing the American tune
But it’s all right, its all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s gonna be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest,
That’s all, I’m trying to get some rest.

AMERICAN TUNE
(words by Paul Simon music by JS Bach/Haßler)
Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken,
and many times confused
And I’ve often felt forsaken,
and certainly misused.
But it’s all right, it’s all right,
I’m just weary to my bones
Still, you don’t expect to be
bright and Bon Vivant
So far away from home,
so far away from home.

I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
Don’t have a friend who feels at ease
Don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees.
But it’s all right, all right,
We’ve lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we’re traveling on,
I wonder what went wrong,
I can’t help it
I wonder what went wrong.

And I dreamed I was flying.
I dreamed my soul rose unexpectedly,
and looking back down on me,
smiled reassuringly,
and I dreamed I was dying.
And far above, my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty,
drifting away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying.

We come on a ship we call the Mayflower,
We come on a ship that sailed the moon
We come at the age’s most uncertain hour
And sing the American tune
But it’s all right, its all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s gonna be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest,
That’s all, I’m trying to get some rest.

it don’t come easy

today, i share the tale of the Easy Bake Oven. it will be a tale much like another famous tale, though it involves no curtains. mercifully.

it’s starts with a little girl. let’s call her BC, shall we, as we always do around here. when BC was about three years old, she went to a chanukah party at her uncle BTD’s house. there were many children there, as her uncle has five kids, and her uncle’s wife’s family has a lot of children and cousins. at this party, everyone had presents to exchange; everyone, except the uncle, who had presents for all of the other children but no present for his beloved (and at the time only) niece, BC. probably a little oversight on the busy present shopper’s part.

in any event, bless BTD’s heart: this is conjecture, of course, but it appeared that after BC’s beloved uncle scrambled upstairs, and then downstairs, he presented BC with a gift he had plucked from an upstairs closet from thin air: a brand-new Easy Bake Oven. BC loved this oven; only, too bad for her. EBOs are for children age eight and up. no matter how mature madame was at this age, she was not ready for an EBO. carefully, her grandmother whisked the present away to toys r us, where she exchanged it for something a little safer for a spunky three year old.

fast forward to our hero, the now-eight-year-old BC. that same grandmother, remembering how much her granddaughter wanted that EBO, got it for her for chanukah. her other uncle, the lovable, right-wing nutball larry, supplied a whole bunch of EBO mixes to keep her own personal glycemic index at about 1000. happy days are here again, right?

not quite.

for our hero, who had not yet fully developed her ability to read fine print, took the giant long cattle prod pushing tool and shoved it into the oven, lodging it permanently inside the oven, even before she had any chance at baking anything. oh woe, she cried. her mom, desperate to dislodge the long plastic thingy, called up hasbro for guidance. unfortunately for all, hasbro and our friends at the cpsc had just announced a recall of the EBO. apparently, other things were getting entrapped in the ovens. (things called fingers.) dutifully, BC’s mom and dad packed it up and returned it, as they had been instructed. the mixes lingered, but the oven was gone with the wind postal service.

months went by, months when hasbro said they might rebuild it; or then again, maybe not. eventually, they issued a $25 gift certificate for any item on hasbro.com. considering the shipping, it wasn’t the best offer in the world. (BC’s mom promptly lost the offer, so in truth, she’s just rationalizing because she felt so guilty.) in time, BC’s evil mom, fearing that the mixes were going to be nastier than nasty, chucked them as well.

fast forward once again to this very date, a date which shall be remembered for so many things. for one thing, BC’s brother jools celebrated a whole week of dry nights; he was to be gifted, as promised, with a shark slip and slide. (after weeks of obsessing about this item, he decided to choose two other items instead as his reward.) for another, BC achieved straight As on her report card. and, remembering that a child had been denied her EBO for so many years, BC’s parents caved bought her her very own EBO.

hurray!

but woe to BC: her mixes are gone. BC’s mother, being cheap industrious, located DIY EBO recipes on the internet, as she knew the three included mixes would last about two minutes. and after BC’s dad returned from the store with a lightbulb (the secret to those crispy crusts delicate cakes heated plastic oven walls), we set forth on our baking adventure.

#1: yellow cake (one packet) with chocolate frosting (one packet), baked especially for the man who bought the lightbulb.

#2 and #3: chocolate peanut butter fudge, one serving shared by wreke and jools, this serving was affectionately dubbed gloop for it’s consistency. imagine the fine taste of confectioners sugar with a slight brownish tinge. the second attempt, eaten by BC after a stint in the fridge, fared a little better.

BC had a great time, though her mother, wreke, was left with the realization that the same woman who would not buy wreke an EBO was willing to do so for her grandchild. no, instead, wreke realized that her own mother, aka the grandmother, was willing instead to let wreke use the real oven instead.

in retrospect, it was probably safer.

lift me up

i’ve just returned from lifting at the gym. it was uneventful, i am glad to report. the only one there from tuesday was the original man, who stared at me when i walked in. i grinned big and said, “HI!” and he left me alone after that. there were several other men in there, and eventually, one other incredibly fit woman. no one paid attention to me (though one guy was staring at the other woman at one point. i only noticed because i was waiting for the barbell, and he was waiting, in between reps with the barbell, watching her. still not wonderful, but whatever.), and i paid little attention to them.

it was a beautiful thing.

exercise lifts me up. i seriously end up sad when i cannot take care of myself the way i need to. if i keep this up for life, i may end up corraling some of you into becoming a sort of online workout club. i want you all to grow old with me and to feel as good as this it’s great to do cardio, but i feel like women don’t get a strong enough message to do strength training. gaining muscular strength is where it’s at, as those old hipsters would have said. you help your bones, you help maintain (and obtain, in my case) a better weight situation (especially since muscle burns more calories than does fat), and you probably can kick someone’s ass in a dark alley.

(just kidding on that last one. well, at least for me, anyway.)

and no, you don’t have to spend your life on machines. in fact, when i am using machines, i am more likely to “cheat” and be too comfortable. (in other words, yes. i am actually doing pushups.) (commence laughter.) the workout i’m following, which uses few machines, lasts only about 35 minutes and a three-day/week commitment. it’s great to do cardio on two or three of the other days if you like. but i see these cardio bunnies on the elliptical, men and women. they spend an hour on a machine and don’t push themselves much. (there’s one woman who regularly reads the Washington Post on one of the machines. you should see her toss the sports section.) if you don’t push yourself to a higher intensity, you’re not really getting the full benefit of the time.

of course, i have my little POS hot pink sansa clip with me, loaded with my usual assemblage of weird songs. (who knew that i was thinking i could clean up for christmas would be an inspirational workout song?) at some point, i would love to start amassing suggestions for workout playlists which don’t include any current crappy pop. (i’m very open to new music; i’m just not open to the stuff that stuffs up the Top 40.) if you’ve any suggestions, drop me a comment.

after all, i need a change. i may be the only person who hangs out on the elliptical tripping to this:

i probably look like a complete dork, but it’s almost a religious experience

well the madcap laughed at the man on the border…

pump it up

during the school year, i hit the community center gym roughly at 9:15. it’s a great time to be at the smelly cheap wonderful facility, as the pre-work exercisers are on their way and the only ones left are:

1) the senior citizens, who play some weird, cultish game that is a cross between tennis and badminton (and they’re out for blood, man. seriously.);

2) the stay-at-home moms, including the new moms who do stroller stride around the track, desperately wishing for post-birth fat removal;

3) the junior high kids at their PE class — the community center gym is their gym, so you see four or five track stars running gym teacher mandated laps, followed by the herd, followed by four or five kids who you just know are already heavy smokers;

4) the one token woman who shows up in the weight room and who looks like a tough prizefighter; and

5) the fire fighters, who, during their non-call moments, are bulking it up in the weight room.

there are a few other regulars, mostly men who i wonder about. unemployed? shift workers? serial killers? who knows. one approached me when i was new and wanted to help me work out, but i casually flashed my wedding ring and tried to pawn him off on another lady. i rarely wear my rings, as i lift weights, so that was my lucky, albeit inexperienced, day.

but it is a known experience.

this week, i have to get to the gym after 1 pm, as that’s when i am childless for a few hours. i like to work out before i hit the supermarket; working out keeps the world safe from ring-dings. so i hit the gym, precisely at 1:00. it is summer now, so there are no PE kids to dodge. and apparently, at 1:00, the seniors must be having their naps. the new moms aren’t there, either — it’s prime baby napping time, too. and no firefighters to speak of. (sigh.) even ms. prizefighter is gone.

this left me with several men, some older, some younger, in the weight room. the only girl. i brought my new weightlifting bible with me, set it down on an unused bench, and started my routine. as i picked up my barbell and started lifting, i saw an older lifter looking at me. looking angrily at me. a look that said: what the fuck is a GIRL doing here? he glared at me pretty much for the entire 40 minutes i was in the room. i just focused on my workout. i mean, maybe he was just having a crappy day? or maybe he was constipated? i dunno.

i walked over to pull on some other weights. i noticed a younger guy looking at the bench where my book was laying. shoot, have i broken some gym etiquette, i wondered. i walked over and apologized. no, he replied with a smile, i was actually just looking at your book. well, the cover with the picture of the hot chick, anyway.

i started to do some step ups on a box that was covered in astroturf. these things kill me, but i feel better in the end after doing them. in the gym mirror, i noticed another one of the younger guys, just staring at my wisconsin-sized ass from behind. was he admiring my form? was he pissed that i was taking up space in the tiny room? was there a rip in my capris? i’ll never know. i was a little creeped out, but i just kept on.

finally, i had to get a ball and do these weird-ass jackknife things. an older man somewhere in the 50-60 range, hair parted and maybe bob dobb’s dad, walked right up to me. what the hell are you doin’? he asked, snottily.

by this point, i had pretty much had it with the men. i can understand why some women join wimpy-ass places like Curves, but when i did a trial week there, it didn’t do anything but aggravate the shit out of me and waste my time.

i got up and looked him in the eye. it’s called a prone jackknife.

he looked at me. what the hell are you doing that for?

to get stronger, i replied. i’ll show you how to do them, then why don’t you try a few?

hell, no, he replied.

then, he left me the hell alone.

no one, but no one, is kicking darla out of the he-man woman hater’s club.

what’s the frequency, kenneth

this week, one of BC’s best pals is hanging out with us. because their names rhyme we decided they’d go by codenames. don’t ask how we got there, but BC’s pal is now going by moose and BC is going by the moniker of squirrel. (somewhere, jay ward is laughing. i know i am.) the plan is that every morning, we do something (or nothing), then every afternoon, the girls go over to the ice skating rink for skating camp. BC’s pal is one of the nicest kids around; they have been friends since they were about five or so, and having her around is a pleasure.

yesterday, things didn’t go completely to plan, though. jools had to stay home, as i needed to take him to the pediatrician’s to get his friday TB test checked. (happily, he is TB-free.) so i had two young ladies of around nine and one little newly-minted five year old. jools only wanted to play with the girls, and the girls preferred playing without his presence. there was much whining and gnashing of teeth. i took them to one of our great sprinkler parks, hoping that there would be something for everyone. and there was, for a time, until jools was too chilly and moose needed a knee repair after getting a bit of a scrape.

re-enter the whining. i don’t think i have ever seen jools so whiny. it was frustrating. hours and hours of never-ending whining. they took my scooter! they won’t let me in BC’s room! they don’t want me around! as the youngest child in my family, i knew all-too-well the joys of this scenario, as i experienced in many times over. i talked to him about it, too. but as he was over-the-top in his mood, i was beginning to wonder whether he was actually not well.

we dropped the girls off at camp. i encountered an obnoxious parking deck checkout woman who looked at her nails while my free 15 minutes in the parking deck turned into 16 minutes and a $1 fee. we hit the doctor’s office — no TB, remember? and then, we went for a swim, just mr. whiny-pants and me. and d’ya know something? the dude was happy. he was swimming to me, diving after his spiderman dive stick, and playing with his little girlfriend, jo-jo. in fact, when he gave his dive stick to jo-jo to borrow and some young cad of about their age came by and took it from her, you had to see mr. man inflate himself and yank it back. i thought they were going to come to blows, so i ambled over, only to watch jools get out of the pool and put the dive stick back into my beach bag. he then returned and just continued to swim with jo, who was not bothered by the loss of the stick (and who then got whacked in the head by a volleyball gone wrong. poor kid.)

all in all, a most pleasant afternoon.

we picked up the girls. moose is a more skilled skater than is squirrel, and apparently, the powers that be at the rink noticed this and wanted to place her in a different camp. no, moose told them, my father signed me up for this camp and this is where i want to be. what a loyal, sweet girl! i dropped off moose, and the fighting continued.

ah, sibling rivalry. is there no one it can’t unhinge?

guilty pleasure monday: to sir with love (lulu)

as the school year closes (at least around here — most of the rest of the nation has been out of school probably for six months by this point, but not OUR schools, which stay open practically until the next millenium), i am inspired to revisit an old chestnut from the teacher-who-tames-the-unruly-and-impossible-class genre. it’s another one of my 4:30 movie favorites, to sir with love, starring brilliant actor sidney poitier and a host of other mostly-english actors you’ve probably never heard of.

in typical hollywood fashion, the movie completely bowdlerizes the novel, down to the fact that when the girls burn something in poitier’s classroom, no one ever tells what’s causing that smell. (it’s a sanitary napkin. used. yech.) not to mention the fact that london’s east end in the mid-1960s was a very rough place, thanks to kray-zee guys like these. (i, of course, follow the east end of london closely, the current bowdlerized version anyhow, via eastenders. so i should know. of course.)

but i rabbit on digress. and this is about guilty pleasure songs, not films. apparently, the american idol folks had lulu on in the not-too-distant past, reviving this old chestnut. i’m sorry i missed it but am glad i can still see it, for while i avoid AI like the plague, i do like seeing old singers trotting out their hits. and it is a lovely song, much better than the crap lulu ended up singing for eurovision a few years after.

too bad for her, though: she can no longer feel parts of her lovely face. no more botox for you, lulu!

so is there a point to all of this? let’s see:

1) the east end of london is not a groovy disneyland;

2) you ought not set fire to your kotex under any circumstances;

3) love your teachers and sing to them often;

and

4) botox — or buttocks, as BC mistakenly calls it — is probably not a good option.

pictures of you

props to onthecurb for stealing this groovy idea. and i’m stealing her verbage, in case kids want to try this at home:

The concept:

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s Flickr Toys: mosaic maker.

The Questions:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food? right now?
3. What high school did you attend?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name.

1. Sheryl Crow -Vancouver, 2. Peanut Butter Cup Heart, 3. Toms River High School North Marching Mariners, 4. eccentric beauty, 5. you really don’t have a blog?, 6. Fishin’ Remuz, 7. Arched people, 8. Spicy Mini Chocolate Lava Cakes, 9. We are fuckin Rock Stars, 10. wildwood crest - windblown, 11. colorful world12. Not available13. Not available14. Not available15. Not available16. Not available