Eliza really likes when I sing Little Bunny Foo Foo* to her, complete with hand motions. We have a washcloth with fingers shaped like bunny heads, which she now calls Bunny Foo Foo because it is frequently used for said performances.

This morning, after I turned down the request to sing the darn thing a third time in a row, Eliza took matters into her own hands.

Here is her performance.

____
*Lyrics:
Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head

Down came the good fairy and she said

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don’t want to see you
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head.
I’ll give you three chances,
And if you don’t behave
I’ll turn you into a goon!”

The next day:

Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head

Down came the good fairy and she said

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don’t want to see you
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head.
I’ll give you two more chances,
And if you don’t behave
I’ll turn you into a goon!”

The next day:

Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head

Down came the good fairy and she said

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don’t want to see you
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head.
I’ll give you one more chance,
And if you don’t behave
I’ll turn you into a goon!”

The next day:

Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head

Down came the good fairy and she said

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don’t want to see you
Picking up the field mice
And boppin’ ‘em on the head.
I gave you three chances
And you didn’t behave
Now you’re a goon! POOF!!”

The moral of the story is:
HARE TODAY, GOON TOMORROW

To the white people “clapping” “in time” to the music during the drum solo:
Stop it. Seriously. Just stop. The drummer does not “need” your “help.”

To all the women “out there”:
Is there anyone of you who does not snicker at the “guitar face”? If so, please teach me.

To “Lindsey Buckingham”:
How is it possible that, with that name, you were NOT one of the British members of Fleetwood Mac?

I picked up my camera today. It is a Fujifilm Finepix A500.

They did not have any media cards available, but the camera has 12MB of memory, so that you can take about 9 or 10 pictures with its own built-in memory — enough to start experimenting.

So that is what I did. And then I got inspired by Pioneer Woman’s frequent photoshop postings and went a little photoshop crazy.

OK, here is the pic as it appeared in the camera. I have never seen a photo where Eliza’s eyes turned out so blue, so despite the traces of peanut butter around her mouth and the runny nose, I fell in love with this picture:

But I couldn’t leave well enough alone and decided to tinker, because the photo hues were kind of red, and I wanted to make that blue pop even more, so I desaturated the red and pumped up the blue:

Then I dropped out all the color, boosted the contrast on the eyes, and put the whole thing through a blue filter:

And this is what Eliza would look like if she were turned into the T-2 cyborg:

And finally, we have apparently achieved acceptance as regards the pink shoes, which she voluntarily, as is by herself and of her own free will, requested to wear this afternoon. I did something weird with this one because the focus is on her middle — all the better to see the traces of jam, peanut butter and lord knows what else is stuck to her shirt, and that was before the M&M debacle. Melt in your mouth, not in your hands? Hah! :: Derisive Snort!::

Well, it was beautiful out today, so I thought it would be a good time to take Project Run 5K Without Dying outside.

It was more like Project Run a Short Distance and Keel Over thanks to the presence of Captain Go Vroomvroom Inna Strower.

I have borrowed a jogging stroller for testing purposes from a friend of mine (Thanks LT!) to test before I commit to an actual purchase, these things being too expensive to sit in the garage.

I had a test walk a week or so ago that nearly went down in flames because She of the Capriciously Weird Fears initially refused to have anything to do with it and complained that it made her “nervous.” Once I used the magic word (Special!), she reluctantly agreed to be strapped in, and was finally won over by a jaunt around the block. I use that word advisedly because I was expecting something lighter from a jogging stroller and I was a bit disappointed. I realize that you need the thing to be sturdy and shock-absorbing enough so the kid’s brains aren’t scrambled; still, I’m already hauling my own carcas around — does it have to be so heavy?

Ah well. The real problem is not the stroller but my generalized hatred of the entire species (strollerist!). I would rather carry 30 pounds of toddler 2 miles through town on my hip than have to deal with them, so take anything I say with a grain of salt. Ask me about my Peg Perego, TOOL of the DEVIL that it is, with its unbelievably craptacular handling and stupid, stupid folding mechanism. Perhaps it would be in better shape if I hadn’t flung it onto the pavement as often as I have, but I maintain that my ire is entirely justified. (LT: I promise not to fling yours!)

Anyway. I persevered with the jogging stroller and got both me and Captain Vroomvroom used to it, so the other day I drove the loop at the park and discovered it was 1.2 miles.

I set a goal to run it once and walk it once the first time out, and that turned out to be just barely doable.

I swear, the first two-tenths of a mile nearly killed me — uphill from a standstill, i.e. no momentum whatsoever on that stroller. With Captain Vroomvroom in it, I think I was pushing 40-45 pounds or so. It was unpretty. Really. I cannot stress enough how unpretty it was. It was innate Taurus stubbornness, along with the thought that there were people walking nearby who had seen me set off running and it would just be too embarrassing to stop this soon in.

Things eased up a bit a couple of minutes in when I hit a flat, and the rest of the way was mostly flat or downhill — it’s amazing how the inclines up and down are magnified when you’re running.

I did the “running” loop of 1.2 miles in 14 minutes — my usual for a mile is 9 and a half, meaning that by minute 14, I’m usually at about 1.5 miles.

I was motivated throughout by commentary: “Mommy goin’ fastily! Vroomvroom! … Where da ducks go? Not see any ducks! No yewow ducks! Wanna see a yewow duck! Wanna see a red duck! … Cute doggie!”…

… requests for “Mommy sing Baabaa Bwack Sheep!”…

… as well as an excellent version of Frere Jacque: “Very Jacque, very jacque, doarmay vous! doarmay vous! doarmay vous! doarmay vous! (she usually got stuck here a while) innamadinnuhbimbadoh!

On the second loop we walked, and it took almost 45 minutes because we made a big detour to the eensy weensy park zoo that is technically still closed but where you can feed the cutest little goats through the fence. Embracer of chaos that she is, Eliza thought it was hysterical when her offer of a cracker set off a round of bleating and headbutting. Among the goats, that is.

I staggered to the car, drove home, and fed us. And now I am going to completely undermine the whole point of the exercise by eating a Cadbury caramel egg.

Bon Appetit!

…when I will pick up my new camera.

I am quite realistic about my photo skills. The newspaper I used to work at used to send reporters out with point and shoots when breaking news hit and all the photogs were busy. During an in-house training of reporters to give them some helpful hints, the photo editor held up a bunch of “don’t” photos. Every single one was one of mine.

That said, I do occasionally manage something nifty.

I’m quite fond of this pair from our honeymoon, for example:

And of course I have much toddler-insanity to document.

So it has been a little annoying that the camera, after an extended accidental-green-filter phase, is now pretty much refusing to take photos altgether.

This little gem, which ought to make the folks at DSS real happy, is among the last taken before I gave up:

In my defense, that’s not just any shotglass, that’s a feminsit shot glass! It’s from the US Women’s Open Golf Tournament, which was played locally a few years back (when Jim and I still had time to go spend all day wandering around a golf course gawking at Michelle Wie, who, contrary to the Law of Celebrity Stature, is HUGE in person).

The video camera allegedly takes pictures, but there are abominably grainy and fuzzy. I took a bunch of pictures of Captain Crazypants wandering around in my shoes and these are the only two that came out even intelligible, let alone clear. I had to strip out the color just to make sense of them:

Right, so, Wednesday, I get a replacement for the old camera, and I am very excited. It is an early (very) birthday present, but I assume that the person who is giving it to me (Hi Grandma Texas!) will not mind if I bust it out early to document the Small Person’s undertakings.