BananAppeal

Of dogs and people

2010-01-05T13:11:00.000-08:00

I've had the pleasure of re-reading Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men with my youngest son. He's only just turned 12, and I know I won't have many moments like this left with him. (It's been years since the oldest has snuggled up to me to read To Kill a Mockingbird.) Both books have their uncomfortable moments: if you've read the books, you know the word I'm talking about. It did give us a good opportunity to talk about racism and how language has been used to diminish and demoralize people. Ultimately, both stories are simply wonderful.

Next, we borrowed the dvd from our local library and watched it as a family. TeenGuy abandoned the Xbox to sit with us. I expected I'd be in tears at the end of the film, when George has to make a painful decision: track Lenny down and turn him in to the authorities (placing him in a situation that he cannot comprehend and leaving him at the mercy of untold cruelties), or put a gun to Lenny's head and pull the trigger.

What got me, however, was the actor who played Candy, the one-handed ranch worker. The morning after his dog is shot by Carlson, Candy is outside feeding the chickens. He knows his dog is dead. After all, he agreed that it was time: the dog was old, he smelled, he was sick and in pain. Still, out of habit, he looks around for the fellow.

That broke my heart. It reminded me of how lost I felt when we had to put our little mutt Heidi to sleep. In unguarded moments I looked for her. Rationally, I knew she was dead. I was there when the vet made the injection. But I longed for her presence, against all rationality. I still do.

So, I broke into sobs and had to leave the room for awhile. The menfolk waited patiently. And at the end of the movie, I sat dry-eyed while Sport buried his head into my neck, crying silently at the loss of innocent Lenny.

Razor

2009-12-22T11:08:00.000-08:00

It's a mustache. Despite how faint it is, it's definitely a mustache.

"I need a razor," he tells me. "I need to shave."

All our razors are dull. I know this because the last time I used one, I made a mental note to write "razors" on our shopping list. But I didn't do it. And now he needs a razor.

He's 16, and he needs a razor. He won't use his father's electric shaver because "I need to know how to do this." It's another rite of passage.

Our office is getting ready to move to a building after 30 years or more of being in our "temporary" space. I've only been here for fifteen years, but I've accumulated a lot of stuff. I've been weeding through my desk drawers and making piles of things to keep and things to throw away: Superman drawings, school pictures, notes from friends, birthday cards. The cards and notes go in the recycling bin. The drawings and school pictures I can't part with. They contain clues to his evolution. I search each of them to try and pinpoint the moment he moved from child to man. I find nothing but the slice of bittersweet memories.

He's taller than I am and at times so distant I barely recognize him. Some days, he's as cold and callous as any typical teen. But some nights he's as sweet as the toddler he used to be. Instead of kisses, he'll rub my sore neck. Instead of drawings, he'll wash up the dishes and put away a basket of clothes. He doesn't like to pose for the camera like he used to, but he'll freely share an anecdote from school. He'll ask a question and wait for an answer.

"Do you really think the world is going to end in 2012? 'Cause that would really suck. 'Cause I'm supposed to graduate from high school."

He's 16 and he needs a razor. Then in two years he'll be gone. It cuts.

H1N1 and me

2009-10-25T13:57:00.000-07:00

Sport came home Monday from school feeling poorly: fever, congestion, and vomiting. It was inevitable, I suppose. The H1N1 virus has been sweeping through the schools.

Tuesday was the worst of it. His fever spiked to 103.2 and I called the doctor to see if I should bring him in.

Dehydration is dangerous, she told me. If he continues to vomit and have diarrhea, then come. Other than that, give him Motrin or Tylenol every 4 hours and try to keep as comfortable as you can.

It's the sickest he's been since a double ear infection as a baby. I literally could not step out of his sight. "Mom," he'd call weakly. "Mom..."

I plied him with liquids and medicines. Ran him baths and showers. Kept a cool rag on his head. Slept on the floor of his room while he napped. Rubbed his feet with lotion. By the end of the day, I was exhausted and he was wrung out and near tears.

"Tomorrow will be better," I promised. And it was. But it's been a long week and I'm grateful that he had no complications.

His reliance on me made me think of all the times I relied on my mother when I was sick. I was a rather sickly child. One family reunion, we all contacted stomach flu and spent the drive back vomiting into a plastic bag.

"Mommy!" we demanded, retching. Rub my back, hold my hand, make me feel better.

My poor mother had her hands full. I can't remember if she was sick as well. I was too consumed by my own misery. But she never complained. That I remember. Never threw her hands up in the air and shouted, "You kids are driving me crazy!" -- although I'm sure she wanted to. My mother was a saint. Thanks, Mom, for setting such a good example.

But I did draw the line last night. He hadn't had a temperature in 3 days and was milking the "waiting hand and foot" mama option for all it was worth.

"Could you get me a drink of ice water?" he asked, heading for bed.

"You've got legs. Use 'em."

So he did.

Bucket list

2009-10-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of my co-workers celebrated their 50th birthdays recently. It won't be long before I'm facing the same grim milestone.

I feel like a grump admitting it, but I've grown to hate birthday celebrations. Unless you're under the age of 19, is a birthday party really necessary? I don't expect anyone to mark the day I entered this world, except for my parents and my spouse. Are any of us with a driver's license all that excited about getting older?

SO and I figure we have about 25 good years left. Anything after that will be gravy, and depending on our genetics and environment, it might be lumpy gravy at that. Our own parents, well over the age of 65, have a combined list of ailments that includes (but is not limited to): osteoporosis, arthritis, high cholesterol, bipolar disorder, prostate cancer, fallen bladder, and cataracts.

Sometimes I ponder the sentiment, "Die young and leave a beautiful corpse." It's catchy, but a recent brush with the Grim Reaper left me certain that an early death is not on my Top Ten list of things to do. Heading westbound on I-40, a semi-truck threw a tire in the eastbound lane. My hands gripping the steering wheel, I watched as it bounced (in apparent slow motion) on the line dividing my car from one to my right. In the rear view mirror, I saw it hit the shoulder and roll harmlessly into a ditch. There was a surge of adrenalin. My hands started shaking when I imagined it deviating slightly and crashing into my windshield. I would have bit it but good. As for a beautiful corpse -- well, I'm sure it would have been a closed-casket ceremony.

If I had a bucket list (and I don't), I'd feel pretty good about marking off some things. True, I'll probably never tour Europe or hike up to Machu Picchu, but I've seen the Grand Canyon and driven up Pike's Peak. I wrote and published a book and I found my True Love. I had a part in creating two unique and entertaining individuals and I've laughed -- a lot. So when the end comes, it comes.

I just hope it comes without any surprise birthday parties. I hate those things.

Snapshot

2009-10-04T18:09:00.000-07:00

This fall, Sport's slowed down a bit on the soccer field. He's carrying a little extra weight around the middle, getting ready for another growth spurt, I think. Over the last year, he's shot up five inches. He's not as fast as he usually is, though he's just as skilled. He anticipates where the ball is going to be and he tries to beat it there. He passes, takes corner kicks, and encourages his teammates.

He's always got a grin on his face. Hair tousled by the wind, he's in his element.

The second half of the game, he volunteers to be goalie so the kid who usually tends the onion bag can get a little time on the field. Sport lunges, grabbing the ball not just with his arms but with his whole body. He doesn't waste any time, putting the ball back into play as soon as he can.

A hand ball in the box results in a penalty kick. Way back at the other goal, Sport claps his gloves together.

"Can I take the shot, coach?" asks one of his mates. Two or three others volunteer.

"Sport!" yells the coach.

My son glances over, squinting.

"Take the shot!"

He's confused for a moment. A goalie taking the penalty? Is the coach serious? Benched kids from the other team look to their own coaches for confirmation. What's going on?

"Take it!" Coach motions for Sport to run down the field. He doesn't have to be told again. Confidently, he sets down the ball, peers at the goal, then kicks.

It's in! Our side erupts into cheers. The boys slap Sport on the back as he races back to his spot in the box. It's a perfect moment. I take a snapshot of it in my mind. Beautiful.

Courage

2009-09-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been so tired. Depressed, even. Perhaps the dog days of summer are getting me down (and the fact that the air conditioning is broken at work). Mostly, it's the return-to-school blues, the chaos of the boys' schedules, the expectations, both spoken and unspoken, we have for our kids as they face another year of public education.

I'm reading Rafe Esquith's new book about raising extraordinary children. It makes me tired and depressed as well because I know I'm not doing nearly enough to rouse my sons from mediocrity to greatness.

I share a secret with my friend MaryGrace, who is bringing up four little girls. We celebrate parenting high points -- recitals, awards, good report cards -- and support each other through the low points -- self-doubt, recriminations, regret. "Remember, we don't have to be good mothers," we tell each other. "We just have to be good enough."

Those two boys are going to be something special, Jill tells me. You're doing a great job, says Crystal. Stop reading all those parenting books, says my husband. You're driving yourself crazy.

Tonight, TeenGuy opens up at the dinner table. Usually he wolfs down the food and heads out to hang with friends. But today, a surprising revelation: "I had a good debate today." And he tell us that one of his classmates made a political remark, some offhand statement, and my son said, "Bullshit" -- in front of the teacher -- and then came back with a fact, which left the other kid sputtering until a third boy got into the verbal fray.

TeenGuy beams.

SO and I are appalled. "You cursed in the classroom?"

He assures us the teacher didn't mind. "She even gave me a thumbs up!"

"You don't curse in the classroom. That is very disrespectful."

He shrugs it off. Later, when we are alone, SO says that throwing out a somewhat objectionable word and a single fact does not constitute a "debate." Yet I can't help but marvel at my son's courage.

That, I think, is extraordinary.

Light a candle

2009-08-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

As a public library cataloger, I get to look at lots of different books covering a vast array of subjects. Some of the most interesting are books are the ones aimed at elementary school kids: they cover the basics and whet the appetite. I enjoy working on a batch of Tween books, especially when the subject matter is animals or geography.

I worked on insect books this morning. As always, I learned something new. Fact: earthworms have bristles on their skin to help anchor their bodies to the dirt. As a gardener, I love earthworms (despite their creepy appearance). As a human being, I'm drawn to their vulnerability.

I have a habit of rescuing neighborhood earthworms in the morning after the sprinkler systems have shut off. I find their struggles to scale the curb heartbreaking. They'll never make it, of course. They lie writhing on the concrete, increasing in desperation until either a bird picks them off, a car crushes them, or they dry out in the relentless sun.

When I'm walking my dog in the morning I can't pass one by without trying to help. After a rain storm, it's impossible. I have to set a limit, and then turn away. I feel like the woman in the starfish parable.

But, to paraphrase a line from one of my favorite movies, I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness.

This is the sound of your kids on caffeine

2009-08-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, on the way to church:

Kid #1: "Do you think I could drive the van? 'Cause it's got a bigger engine than the Toyota. I think I could handle it pretty well. I think I could handle a stick shift, 'cause I drive one of those when I'm gaming. It seems pretty easy. You drive two footed, right? And then you shift when you get a certain speed. Hey look, a Mini Cooper! Do you think I could afford a used Mini Cooper? When I get a job, I mean. The guy down the block has a classic car for sale. $3000! I think that's too much, don't you? Of course, it is made of steel. I'll bet if I crashed that car it wouldn't even get a dent. So can we go driving tonight? A Honda Civic! That's my car, right there. I want one of those. Are you guys going to buy me a car? Are you going to help me? I think I could save $5000 over the summer and get a good car. Why are you smiling? You think I couldn't do it? I could totally do it. Or I could get a Yugo like in that movie last night. I wonder what kind of engine a Yugo has. Like a 2 cylinder? ..."

Kid #2: "Would you rather be shot in the head or the heart? 'Cause a head shot would be fast but messy. But a heart shot might take longer to die. And a shot in the lung would take a long time. I'd rather be shot than drown. Or suffocate. What if you fell from a four story building and got all kinds of internal injuries and then it took you like four days to die? That would suck. Would you rather have a stroke or a heart attack? Would you rather be eaten by a grizzly bear or killed by a human? Oh, a Corvette! I'm going to save all my money and get a Corvette when I grow up. I know they aren't good for the environment, but that's my car. That's mine. No, you can't talk me out of it. No, I don't want a hybrid. Those aren't cool, Mom. Come on! Would you rather burn or freeze to death? ..."

Clash of the titans

2009-08-14T05:52:00.000-07:00

We have a few very strong personalities in our family. Last night, three of them smacked right into each other.

With the onset of puberty, TeenGuy has moved into a new phase. No longer content to sit and observe things with his old soul eyes, now he wants what he wants when he wants it. He's a master at pestering. He loves to negotiate. Often, he'll bargain. If he doesn't get what he wants, he'll retreat into a dark silence, or disappear on his bike for a couple of hours.

Last night, he wanted to drive.

I was doing a crossword puzzle with Sport and SO. TeenGuy stood in kitchen, working his jaw. Finally, I stood up to grab my purse. Like lightning, he zipped to the driver's seat of the car, revving the engine.

We ambled along neighborhood streets until I got the bright idea of taking him into a parking lot with speed bumps. "You'll need to learn how to go over them without tearing up the bottom of your car," I told him.

I didn't realize how narrow the entrance was to the lot until he took the turn going way too fast. A metal post, situated to the left of the entrance, loomed ahead. Time slowed down as the front of the car came dangerously close. I must have yelped and said (rather loudly), "You're going to hit it!" Scared the kid to death. Scared me. He started yelling at me. I yelled back that raising my voice was a natural reaction to fear.

It didn't go too well after that. I took over and drove home, vowing to leave the driving lessons up to his father. TeenGuy jumped on his bike and took off.

In the meantime, Sport had a meltdown because he wanted to spend the night at a friend's house. This friend, I'd like to mention, already had plans to spend the night with us the next evening. Sport's learned how to negotiate and bargain from his brother. The difference is, this kid doesn't let go. His appeals tend to go on for hours. We were all exhausted by the time he finally gave in.

I retreated into my bedroom, put on some calming music, and did some yoga. Eventually, TeenGuy reported that he'd gone back to the site of the incident and taken a second look at the space. "You were right, Mom. It was really close. I'm sorry."

And later, Sport came in to apologize as well. They're good boys. But stubborn!

Rules of the road

2009-08-11T19:16:00.000-07:00

TeenGuy wants to get his driver's license. To do this, he has to learn to drive. Also, he needs to know the rules of the road. I've brought home the Oklahoma driving manual twice during the summer. It sits on the buffet table, looking sad and unused. My son seems to think that getting behind the wheel of the car a couple times a week, hugging the curb, and coming to a full stop at the stop sign is enough knowledge to pass a driving test. Think again, mister. When I imagine him hitting an ice patch during the first winter storm, I shudder.

I've been taking him out when I can, and the last time, SO went with us. He told me I'm too hard on the kid -- honestly, I didn't mean to be. I sort of screamed when he veered into the left lane while making a turn. I was only playing, but my kind of teasing is probably more appropriate for my peers.

I remember learning to drive. It was terrifying. My dad was really critical with my hesitant technique and I was scared to death being in control of a 2-ton solid steel station wagon. But I persevered. I prepared.

I passed the written test with ease, but during the driving part, the state trooper in the car with me nearly jumped out of his seat when I veered to close to a parked car along a narrow neighborhood street.

"Watch the side mirrors! Watch the side mirrors!" I think he broke into a sweat. And then he failed me. The next time, I did much better and left the building with a license to drive. Ahhh, teenage milestones.

Another diary entry:

Jan. 8, 1975. Boy, are my parents mean. They would not go to the library for fear we would be late for church! Dum, right?

Even then, I was a library junkie.

That same day, a year later:

I played with Bruce & Jason [neighborhood boys who lived down the block from us]: "Slaves." Then we played "Bigfoot" and "Time Travel." Then I watched "Nashville remembers Elvis on his birthday." Today was Elvis' birthday. He would be 43. The first birthday without him. It was sad.

I wish I could remember what the game of "Slaves" was like. I'm sure it wasn't politically correct.

Purge

2009-08-09T18:41:00.000-07:00

SO and I are working on reorganizing our garage so we can make a gaming station out there for the boys to use when it's not miserably hot or cold. We figure they could get about two and a half seasons of use out of it.

We're pretty good about going through our junk every few years, so at least the thing isn't stacked floor to ceiling with acquisitions. Looks like we'll be making a trip to the hazardous waste dump because we've got lots of half-used cans of paint, insecticides, and other items too dangerous to put in the trash.

I found a box of old letters from family and friends. I weighed the pros and cons of throwing the whole bunch into the recycling bin until SO reminded me that few people write letters anymore. "Maybe our kids won't be interested in those, but our great-grandkids might."

I imagined finding a box of letters written to my own great-grandparents. What a treasure that would be! Wouldn't it reveal their characters to me in a way that family stories never could? I decided to keep the letters and store them in the hopes that a future Adjective Queen might enjoy them one day.

I also found two of my childhood diaries. I got a kick out of reading entries to SO until he very patiently asked me when I thought I'd be done so he could read his own book in peace.

Here's an entry from the 1976-76 edition (spelling errors included):

Jan. 4. I am sitting on my bed writing in you. I don't want to go look at cartoons rite now because I feel I am to old. I am ten years old. We go to music lessons today. I hate them. I don't ever get a day off.

How many times have I heard Sport complain in the same way about piano lessons?

Another entry from the 1977-1978 edition.

Jan. 3. Today was school. Hard to get up this morning ... Mr. Slack told us about "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". It sounds good. Probably will out sale "Star Wars." MAYBE. Haven't seen "Star Wars" yet. I hope we can see it soon.

Guess I got that prediction wrong!

Victor, his name is Victor...

2009-08-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

Sport volunteered at the library's Summer Reading Program. As a result, he got a free pass to Laser Quest. He's never been before, so it was a new experience for him. TeenGuy (formerly known as Lego) has gone a couple of times and really enjoyed it, so I was sure that Sport would have fun.

I, however, didn't plan on sticking around. First of all, the place is loud. Secondly, it's smelly. Thirdly, it's loud and smelly. I scouted out a cute little Mexican restaurant nearby, a place called Victor's. After dropping Sport off and making sure he was properly supervised, I grabbed my book and headed for the cafe.

I should have taken my first cue from the penetrating heat of the interrogator's light installed over my booth, My second cue was the stale tortilla chips the waiter so eagerly brought to my table. The third? The bizarre, frenetic music playing over the speaker system. I'm not even sure of the genre. Flamenco/salsa/techno?

The chicken tortilla soup was packed full of squash and carrots -- not a common ingredient in any of the tortilla soups I've ever eaten. I couldn't enjoy my book because the couple behind me had to raise their voices to be heard over the music.

What did I learn? Never eat at a restaurant named after the Lone Rangers nephew's horse.

Meanest mom

2009-07-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I now qualify for "the meanest mom". My crime? Limiting my children's access to the TV. And the Xbox. And the computer.

The boys feel it is their right and privilege to be entertained every waking hour of the day. Reading is not acceptable. They won't draw. They rarely stay in their rooms to mess with board games. If it doesn't come with flashing lights and sounds, they won't bother. Only when the TV is off limits do they turn on their stereo and listen to music.

It's the heat that is really exacerbating the problem. In the evenings, they'll go outside to play soccer, but ten days of 100+ weather has us all dragging. Even when the sun is setting, it's miserable outside. The boys say it's too hot to kick the ball out on the street. The pavement feels like a griddle.

I feel like I'm being held hostage by the TV. I know I'm weird. I have sound sensitivity issues. After working all day, I don't want to hear exploding bombs, irritating theme music or mindless role-playing dialog. I just want it to be quiet. Sometimes, I want to listen to classical music. Sometimes I want to read in my favorite chair. But I can't do any of that when the boys are entertaining themselves.

So I demand they turn it off. They throw tantrums. Call me mean. Roll their eyes. Say it's stupid. Accuse me of being unreasonable. Finally, the teen will storm off to a friend's house. The other will go into his room to listen to music and thumb through a soccer magazine. Then, it's quiet.

Except for the high-pitched whine of my neighbor's attic fan. Once the din of the TV is gone, that's what I hear. Sighing, I'll turn on my newest aquisition: a metal fan that hums like a small-engine plane. It masks all other sounds with blessed white noise.

Ahhhhh, quiet. Finally.

Lounge wear

2009-07-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Target shopper,

Don't. Just don't. Yes, I'm talking to you. You, the man in the lounge pants and the shirt with the sleeves conveniently cut out. You, wearing flannel in the middle of summer, multi-colored toasters winging their way across the grain of the fabric. Do you realize that when you raise that cup of Starbucks coffee to your lips, the arms of your "shirt" flop conveniently in the breeze, exposing the bulge of your belly? Your armpits appear to be dueling black holes, threatening to engulf nearby children with tentacles of hair. At least put on a pair of cutoffs. Sheesh!

Sincerely,

Your fellow Target shopper

I know that grocery shopping is one of the least pleasurable activities on earth. I really hate the frantic search for relatively healthy meals to sate the appetites of my growing children. I'm all for embracing individuality and eschewing formality, but I can't stomach the increasingly bizarre outfits of some of the people I see at the grocery store.

I'm not in favor of putting on a dress, hose, heels, and full make-up like the character of Betty in one of my favorite tv shows. I think a pair of sweats, shorts, and a t-shirt are sufficient. But the whole pajama thing has got to stop. The other day I saw someone shuffling about in old lady slippers. Where's our sense of pride, people? Would it kill you to put on a pair of sandals?

Guilty pleasures

2009-07-04T15:23:00.000-07:00

At the urging of my friend Thomas, I'm starting up the blog again. Facebook put a real damper on my posting enthusiasm, but I think I can base my entries on status updates and see what happens.

Right now, we are in the middle of watching episodes from the original Star Trek series. A trip to the theater to see the J.J. Abrams reboot got me curious to revisit these blasts from my past. I vividly remember coming home from elementary school and turning on the tv, face pressed to the cool black naugahyde of our family couch, and hearing that familiar refrain: "Space, the final frontier..."

What's even more interesting is recognizing the quality of the scripts involved. Yes, the special effects are cheesy. One of the episodes had Kirk and Spock thrown against the wall of the ship, and the thing buckled like cheap foam board (which it was). For the most part, however, the stories are really good.

And then there's that special relationship between two of the main characters. There is real chemistry among the three main characters, but especially between Kirk and Spock. Curiously, the Kirk/Spock dichotomy led to the birth of slash fiction, and I've read through some of these creative attempts during the last week. Mostly, they are pitiful, with multiple points of view, lots of heavy breathing, and too many adverbs. But it's also hard to stop reading. It's kind of fun, actually.

Author Henry Jenkins explains why this kind of fan-created fiction is so popular, especially among heterosexual women:

When I try to explain slash to non-fans, I often reference that moment in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan where Spock is dying and Kirk stands there, a wall of glass separating the two longtime buddies. Both of them are reaching out towards each other, their hands pressed hard against the glass, trying to establish physical contact. They both have so much they want to say and so little time to say it. Spock calls Kirk his friend, the fullest expression of their feelings anywhere in the series.

Almost everyone who watches that scene feels the passion the two men share, the hunger for something more than what they are allowed. And, I tell my nonfan listeners, slash is what happens when you take away the glass. The glass, for me, is often more social than physical; the glass represents those aspects of traditional masculinity which prevent emotional expressiveness or physical intimacy between men, which block the possibility of true male friendship. Slash is what happens when you take away those barriers and imagine what a new kind of male friendship might look like. One of the most exciting things about slash is that it teaches us how to recognize the signs of emotional caring beneath all the masks by which traditional male culture seeks to repress or hide those feelings.”

As Spock might say, "Fascinating."

Facebook addiction

2008-09-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, some old college friends came into town to deliver their son to our alma mater. A big group of us met for dinner and had a wonderful time revisiting our wild and crazy college days. The biggest topic of discussion was Facebook and how much fun it was to network and reconnect.

So, over the last 3 or 4 weeks, I've been absolutely obsessed with Facebook. I checked out Facebook for Dummies from my local library and learned how to use it fairly well. Even put up some family photos. Then, last week, the whole thing was updated to a new version and I am utterly lost again. So frustrating! It was finally feeling familiar.

Still, it's as much fun as ever and a total time-waster. Random comments and discussions, status updates, photo posting -- it can eat a huge chunk of time. And I'm loving every minute of it.

Revisiting the past

2008-08-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

Some movies have a special place in my heart.

I'm not big on film ownership, but SO is, so we have a significant collection. We recently revisited a film from the Eighties, one that I think on fondly. Apparently, there's a scene in Andy Samberg's "Hot Rod" that rips off a scene from Footloose, and the boys wanted to see the original version.

Come to find out, it's not a great idea to watch a fondly-cherised film from your college days with a couple of smart-mouthed kids. I think they prefer the Andy Samberg version, which I thought was juvenile. Footloose is pretty juvenile, too, but I loved it then and I love it now. It really does encapsulate the 80s for me. I went to see it with a bunch of college pals in one of those old theaters -- the kind that only played one film and had an enormous lobby. After it was over, we all danced down the aisle to the credits and continued our dancing out in the lobby. Most of us were Nazarene kids who had grown up being told of the evils of dancing, so few of us had any kind of moves, but it was a blast. That's why the movie was so great. It felt like our story.

Come to think of it, it still feels like our story. Oklahoma feels strangely similar to that creepy little town. Weirdly, I just googled the thing and Wikipedia states that it was loosely based on events that took place in the farming community of Elmore City, Oklahoma.

No wonder it felt (and still feels) so familiar.

Professional jealousy

2008-07-27T16:23:00.000-07:00

I'm reading the newest book by David Sedaris and have been greatly entertained by it. I'm a little more than halfway through it, and, as is usually the case, I'm feeling less and less amused. Instead, I find myself being more and more critical, deconstructing paragraphs and muttering little asides under my breath. "Oh, really?" "Come on!" "No way."

Professional jealousy is an ugly thing.

How does he do it? How can so many quirky and unusual things happen to a person?

I know he's prone to embellishment. All writers are prone to embellishment. Just ask my co-workers and they'll tell you not a day goes by that I don't try to add a little color to (sometimes) factual accounts of both the news and my life. I take every opportunity to jazz up a story.

Whatever happened to Shannon Miller, the famed Edmond gymnast? She's currently recovering from a broken back. But she's going to be just fine.

How did X and Y ever get together? They just don't match. I know, it's weird, but even weirder is the fact that Y is a mail-order bride.

Why is Z wearing that arm brace? He had some minor surgery. No big deal, they just removed some hair and teeth that belonged to his subcutaneous twin.

Okay, so it's small potatoes next to the David's mastery of embellishment and exaggeration. He says that he keeps a little notebook in his pocket, jotting down up to 10 things a day that might give him inspiration later: things like giving an adult skeleton as a present, the bizarre character sketch of his neighbor Helen, and the creepy babysitter who made him and his siblings scratch her back with a plastic wand "no bigger than a monkey's paw".

I think I might be able to wring some amusement out of a descriptive posting on SO's favorite pair of pseudo-shorts -- a bit of pale green cloth that once proudly served its host as an article of clothing but is now shapelessly held together by a thin elastic band and a prayer. But no, I just can't do it. I've got to get back to the book.

Maybe tomorrow, if I'm not paralyzed by envy.

"Rrrrrrrrr!"

2008-07-10T18:04:00.001-07:00

Sport's best friend has moved back to California. Luis was a great kid and his family practically adopted Sport, teaching him to love homemade flour tortillas, professional wrestling, and a desire to learn Spanish.

"Why can't I roll my r's like Luis?" he asked me.

"It takes practice," I told him. "You've got to start when you're really little and develop a technique."

My San Antonio childhood gave me a chance to roll my r's every now and then, but I've not used the ability in a very long time. I can give a nice twist to "carne asada" but it takes a while to get back in the swing of things. I showed Sport how to do it and he's been practicing. A lot.

The weird thing is, those r's get rolled about two octaves higher than his normal voice. It sounds oddly like a crow cawing.

"If Sport does that one more time, I'm going to kill him," growled Lego. We were taking a 5-mile bike ride and his brother continued to caw those r's for most of the trip.

I think he's hoping that Luis will come back and he'll stun him with his amazing new technique.

UPDATE: It worked! Luis has been gone for a couple of months now, but he showed up on our doorstep Sunday night. Sport was beside himself with joy. Rrrrrrrrrr!

Bike freedom

2008-06-25T18:29:00.001-07:00

Nothing takes me back to my childhood more instantly than a bike ride. Last summer my bike had a warped rim and a flat and we never got around to fixing it. This summer, I set a goal to get that thing fixed. And SO, God bless him, got around to it this week. And so, tonight we took an exhilarating ride along the east shore of the lake.

Lots of people were out and about. I saw a scissortail flycatcher and a poor old mama dog. (I hate seeing strays. I want to rescue them but am stopped by the thought of SO's face. He only just tolerates the dog we've got.) I tried to hang back with Sport, who has a much smaller bike and shorter legs, but I couldn't do it. Soon I was racing Lego for the lead. I let him win. Got to give him a little confidence. (Umm, okay, I didn't "let" him.)

My first capitalistic enterprise involved a bike. Mine was ancient and blue, with a kind of metal flap on the back one might use to secure a notebook. It was a perfect perch for a passenger. One Saturday, I took that bike ("Old Blue" as I creatively called it) up to an apartment complex and started charging kids for a trip around the facilities. My memory is a penny a ride. It might have been a nickel. Anyway, I wasn't going to get rich off of it and I only had a single customer -- a little red-headed girl with a bank full of change. Eventually, the apartment manager chased me off, but I was a quarter richer, so take that old man!

Like most every kid, I thought I was something special on that bike. In my mind, I could do any trick in the book: no hands, side saddle, legs on the handlebars, balance on the bike seat with legs splayed, heck, I could stand on that seat while the thing was in motion if pressed. Whether or not I could really do those things was beside the point. I believed I could do them, therefore, I was amazing. I would win any bike rodeo (yes, we had bike rodeos in those days) if only I deigned to compete (which I didn't do, because I didn't need a trophy or a blue ribbon to prove my point). I was that good.

Old Blue and I went everywhere. We explored "The Trails" (an undeveloped subdivision), the "Gravel Pit" (a gravel pit) and the ruins (abandoned pool where some kid was rumored to have died by breaking his neck after jumping off the diving board). I knew every nook and cranny of the neighborhood sidewalks, each bumpy and gravelly part of the street. That bike gave me absolute freedom, or the illusion of freedom.

I'd give anything to have Old Blue back. (It would also be nice to be about 30 years younger.)

"Passed 3 graves"

2008-06-20T14:10:00.000-07:00

My current read is Best of Covered Wagon Women, a collection of diaries and letters of women traveling the overland trail to California. In between daily reports of terrain, weather, and run-ins with Indians is the stark notation of grave sightings.

"Passed 3 graves" writes Parthenia Blank. Some burials are only days old. Some have been there longer; many have been dug up by wolves and coyotes. Other than taking note of the graves, the women don't spend much time wondering about the occupants. It must have been frightening seeing so many reminders of death and dying: not just women and their children but young men as well.

I love the descriptions of the west before European settlement. I can't imagine the difficulties of undertaking such a journey in a covered wagon. Amazing women.

ObamaManiac

2008-06-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

Like my dear friend QueenBee, I am through the roof with excitement over Barack Obama's nomination. I don't think I could say it any better than she did over at her blog, so read it here and I second the emotion.

I heard today that Millennials tend to be gender- and race-neutral, which gives me another great infusion of hope for the future. Although I've (barely) tried to respond to my Republican father about Obama, I often come up against a brick wall of bigotry. It's sad to see people inour country so twisted by fear about the color of someone's skin -- the amount of melanin programmed into their genetic code.

Juxtaposed against a story I saw about a group of Floridians flying a gigantic Confederate flag, I'm thinking that over time, that kind of racism is going to die out and be replaced by the more realistic approach to things espoused by Generation Y. My own children don't seem to view Obama as a black man. He's an inspirational figure who happens to be bi-racial.

I'm not saying they don't have playmates who are prejudiced. Sport asked me for an information sheet debunking myths about Obama and his "hidden Muslim agenda" so he could read it to his friends at school. I was stunned that even 10-year-olds are talking about him. And Lego quickly corrects his friends when they call Obama "Osama." Such ignorance can only be addressed one person at a time. But I think a lot of that is coming from things they hear their parents say.

It's times like this that I'm proud to be a librarian! When my kid asks me for a fact sheet, that's a power trip, baby!

UPDATE: My sister feels I indirectly accused my mother of being racist, which I did not intend to do. I apologize for that. I have had issues with some of the things my father has said in the past and I make allowances because I feel it is a direct result of the way he grew up. And they did not raise us to be prejudiced.

Our little corner of Hell

2008-06-05T13:59:00.000-07:00

Arriving on Monday, I knew we were in trouble when I saw the duct tape on the toilet seat. There was a hole in the ceiling in the kitchen. The refrigerator had been turned off, so it was going to take hours for it to get cool enough to transfer our food from the ice chest. The cabin was full of sand and roly-polys.

Oh yeah, and I forgot to pack cups, plates, or cutlery.

Oh, and one more thing -- the forecast for Tuesday was 107 and windy.

Welcome to Quartz Mountain Resort in southwestern Oklahoma. It's got a unique beauty. We learned that it is the second oldest mountain range in the United States. (The oldest are the Appalachian Mountains.) The pinkish-red rock that colors the mountains is granite. Granite holds a lot of heat. Climbing the Quartz Mountains during a freakish heat wave can give you second degree burns and a heat rash. We decided against doing this when we were halfway up Mount Baldy and a gust of wind nearly toppled Sport over.

Settling instead for a nature walk, we listened as SO read about indigenous plants and the ways Native Americans put them to good use. The boys wanted to swim in the lake, which seemed like a really good idea until we were blasted with sand from winds that had to be gusting up to 50 miles an hour or more. Seriously, the lake waves resembled crashing ocean waves. If we'd had some boards, we could have done some surfing.

At one point, we watched a water moccasin slither near the shore and into a nearby rock formation. One of the beach Bubba's, clutching a Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a fist-sized rock in the other, ambled over to search for the little critter. I wondered if he was drunk enough to actually feel around in the rocks for the snake. Turns out he wasn't.

Trying to grill up some hamburgers in this kind of weather is an exercise in frustration. After numerous attempts to light the charcoal, they finally got done. They were a little crunchy, but if the Egyptians could eat bread seasoned with sand then we could eat burgers with only a light dusting.

The wind never let up the entire time we were there. Temperatures soared. We went out on a paddle boat and were nearly roasted alive. The only relief came when we were in the lake water.

I think my entire body underwent an involuntary exfoliation. Perhaps I'll look 5 years younger when I get back to work.

Grounded!

2008-05-21T11:39:00.000-07:00

A series of unfortunate events led to the grounding of the boys last Thursday. Their punishment? No screens: no tv, no computer, no Xbox. Nothing. After the expected weeping and gnashing of teeth, a calm came upon our house.

Saturday was fabulous! Knowing they could not turn on the screens, the boys planned out their day. First, a game of Army men. Then, a bike ride. They played soccer outside. Went for a long walk with the dog. Ran some laps. Sport colored a picture. Lego reorganized his collection of military collectibles. I was left alone to garden. I was not called upon to negotiate any of the complex treaties that go along with obtainig screen time.

It was heavenly.

Today the screen ban will be lifted. After school, the boys will break their 6-day hiatus with a viewing of the UEFA cup final. And Saturday I will undoubtably be bombarded with pleas: "Can I play the Xbox?" "Can I watch the Military Channel?" "How long can I get on YouTube?"

I can't wait until we can ground them again.

I sing of pianos and plumbers

2008-05-12T13:10:00.000-07:00

I have two reasons to be happy this morning. Sport participated in Guild on Saturday and did very well. In fact, he almost did too well. Let me explain.

The last six weeks have been a nightmare with this child. Ever since he started taking piano, he has wanted to compete for the best scores, the biggest medals, the largest trophies. Since his teacher is a member of the National Guild of Piano Teachers, she expects all of her students to participate in Guild each year. At the age of 6, he started off with memorizing ten pieces in order to go for a gold medal. This year, it was again 10 pieces. As he gets better, the music becomes increasingly difficult.

As of Friday, he was still memorizing the last piece in order to perform on Saturday. I was literally chewing my knuckes. I told SO, "If he pulls this off, it will be a miracle."

Well, cue the choir of angels. He did it, scoring a 98 out of 99 points and earning a top talent award, plus that damned gold medal he wanted. Wednesday, he'll be getting a whole new batch of music. I don't know if I can do this another year.

On the bright side, the Abbott and Costello of plumbers who have been driving us crazy for the last 11 days finally unclogged our bathroom pipes. We now have a working tub and sink! The only problem is the stains left behind by 5 inches of clay-filled water. SO scrubbed the tub for hours. Alas, it looks like we are to have a constant reminder of our plumbing woes.

Sunday morning with Sport

2008-05-04T14:37:00.001-07:00

Lego had a migraine this morning, so that left me with Sport while we got ready for church. It's always a challenge to be alone with Sport. For one thing, he's full of questions. Here's what I got hit with at breakfast and on the way to church:

1. Do serial killers chop people up?
2. Can ants swim?
3. What is Flag Day?
4. If I get in a car crash, couldn't you identify me by these two scars and my teeth?
5. Can I start the car?
6. Can I pull the car out?
7. Do ants hibernate?
8. What happens if the polar ice caps melt?
9. Did you know there's only 13 more days of school left?

It's no wonder I find the weekends so exhausting. But I do it to myself. I find it hard to sit still when there seems to be so much work to do. I used the afternoon to clean off the back porch and get it all set up for spring. By summer, it's just too hot to sit out there, but I like to clean off all the furniture and rinse out my tabletop fountain. When I find the time, I can sit in one of the cushioned chairs and listen to the water running. Usually the boys are fixated on either the TV or the computer, so they don't miss me.

Another busy week lies ahead. With only 13 more days of school left, the next 3 weeks are filled with activities.

Take me to your leader

2008-04-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

I have been chosen to participate in a program for upcoming leaders here at work, thus, all my free time has been eaten up by readings, meetings, departmental visits, etc. My goal to put up a new blog entry has been pushed to the backburner, but since I'm down to 2 faithful readers, I think you guys will understand!

Also, looks like I'm going to be the proud author of a new book! Yes, it's been about 2 years in the making, but it went to press this week. Check out the website if you dare. And I'm expecting you'll buy several copies for family members, nieces, nephews, and random strangers on the street.

Tommorow I will be going out to get Sport another pair of glasses. He had 2 pairs; one broke several months ago and the other gave up the ghost the day before his eye appointment. I'm going to get plastic frames this time. Those metal ones are too delicate for an athletic kid. He wants to get red glasses. Since he's gotten all A's the last 2 semesters, I think I can splurge for a little color.

Lego has one more science project to work on. He's actually got a game plan this time (although he came up with it after we forbade computer games and the X-box until he had something written down on paper). He's still so laid back, he's practically lying on the floor. I guess it's great not to get stressed out about the little things (like finishing a project worth 1/3 of his entire grade) but it makes me crazy!

Believe it or not, we'll be getting a new roof for the house next week. The hailstorm a couple weeks back finally pushed us to take the money from the savings and just do it. SO doesn't like to see the bank account shrink, but I'm tired of the drab condition of that roof. Next year, we'll have the paint the house. That won't be fun.

Volunteers, anyone?

The Old Man and the Stump

2008-03-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a daunting task. When our beautiful Bradford Pear tree was shattered in the ice storm, we weren't sure what to do with the stump. It was expensive to have a tree service come out and grind it down. For a while, we thought about disguising it as a bird bath, just putting a container on top and letting it be.

But SO couldn't stand the unsightly stump. Plus, it reminded him of the tree we'd lost, a tree we'd loved, a tree that had protected us from the harsh rays of the summer sun.

"I'm taking it out!" he declared.

He and the boys, armed with shovels and hand spades, attacked the base of that old stump. They dug for days (well, he did -- the boys gave up after about an hour) and finally exposed all the roots. Then, SO started hacking and sawing at the roots.

For such a young tree, it sure did have an intricate root system. I can't imagine what the root systems are like on some of the trees in our neighborhood that have to be at least 60 or 70 years old.

One evening after a rain, SO stood in the gaping hole in our front lawn, ankle deep in cold mud. He worked with an axe until the sun went down. When he finally climbed out of that hole, he almost fell over. His toes were blue and numb from the cold. But he had done it! It was ready to go.

Thanks to a kind neighbor, the stump was ripped from the ground via a chain attached to a truck. All that hard work had paid off. Now, we've just got to carve out some time to re-sod the lawn.

Or let the weeds take over.

Wedding bells

2008-03-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

My 3-year-old niece got married on Sunday.

Okay, she's in her early 20s now, but when I look at her, I see the toddler I adored when I was dating SO. She was precocious, red-headed, and full of personality. Now she's self-absorbed, beautiful, and the most talkative person I know. I'm hoping her new husband will handle her (with kid gloves) and be a loving stepfather to her 4-year-old son. I'm hoping he's a keeper.

The most disconcerting moment of the whole weekend was when the ladies were pulled into one room and shown the lingerie my niece got at her personal shower. After looking at all that lace and see-through nylon, I had to turn away.

"Where's the flannel footie pajamas?" I asked.

She looked at me with pity. I guess I did sound pathetic. And old.

Sigh.

Have a Bud Light, and don't throw the chocolates!

2008-03-10T07:57:00.000-07:00

Enjoyed a rare Saturday night out when I participated in a fundraiser for Special Olympics. I signed up to be a member of a Trivia Team, and competed against 63 other teams. Our ragtage group assembled by 7 o'clock, and each of us were afraid we'd be the fatal flaw. Mel, our fearless leader, gave us an encouraging talk.

The first round of questions stumped us, and we only got 5 right, but the second round focused on Harry Potter books and we cleaned up on that. Okay, we missed two, but how obsessed do you have to be to know Harry Potter's birthday and the shape of Hermione's patronus?

We managed to do rather well the rest of the night, but the first round handicapped us. Other categories were Sports (I took that opportunity to run to the bathroom), TV Moms, Food, and Movies. I was disappointed in some of the categories. I was really hoping for History, Current Events, or Astronomy. Sadly, I couldn't put those parts of my brain to good use.

Group dynamics are interesting. Invariably, we came up with a number of answers for each question, and sometimes the right answer was discarded in favor of one that seemed correct but wasn't. No one played the role of bossy know-it-all, which was nice. I've known too many people like that when serving on library committees.

After 10 rounds and lots of donated beer, some of the tables were getting unruly. Our emcee had to chastize some of the Trivia Teams for throwing chocolate candies. It was like a scene from a high school cafeteria.

"Don't throw the chocolates! People are being hit in the face! They can be seriously hurt by the chocolates!"

Just about everyone at our table won a door prize. (No, not me. Of course not me!) A teammate -- a big woman -- won a tiny t-shirt. Seriously, it was probably made for a 2-year-old. Emblazened across the front was "Bud Light." We laughed so hard over that t-shirt. Can you imagine giving that to your baby grandchild to wear?

"Here you go, sweetheart. Have a Bud Light."

Just eat your apple pan dowdy

2008-03-03T14:25:00.000-08:00

Another strange case of serendipitous reading. I was in the library staff lounge during my lunch break, and saw that someone had baked and left a generous serving of "apple pan dowdy" for us to enjoy.

Apple pan dowdy? What the hell is that? I'd never heard of it. It wasn't something my generation made for Superbowl parties or other get-togethers.

I picked at it with a fork and took a bite. Definitely not for me.

So, I sat down to eat my lunch and read my book, Free for all, by Dan Borchert, and when I turned the page, I came across the phrase "apple pan dowdy." Apparently, someone had baked one for the author and delivered it to his library via cab for the staff to enjoy.

What to make of this bizarre coincidence?

Sicko

2008-02-22T11:59:00.000-08:00

Our city is in the throes of a nasty trio of disease: the flu, an upper respiratory thingy, and a stomach virus.

Sport had the stomach virus yesterday. He threw up all morning and was as weak as a kitten for the rest of the day. But this morning he hopped out of bed without being prodded eight different times. "I'm just happy to be alive!"

Our best pals were laid out by sickness and walking pneumonia for more than a week. I got a call from one friend who said her husband was sick -- again. Another friend emailed with a hilarious account of his illness:

"...a combination of the flu and a lack of will to live that may or may not have been related. I choose to think they were because when I was in the depths of the illness I wanted to be neither asleep nor awake and was uncomfortable in whatever position I found myself. It was truly an existential crisis."

I work in a library. SO works at the airport. We are both exposed to the general public every day. We live in dread of exposure, which has led to the development of an OCD-like obsession with handwashing. If I could get away with it, I'd wear a face mask or even an epidemiology body suit like they get at the CDC.

Oh yeah, remember the roof repair? Well, the torrential rain we got on Saturday opened up a leak and took out a patch of ceiling in our department. Three computers were destroyed. We are now dealing with a nasty stink and a roof that has yet to be fixed. When I come to work, I get nauseous. But no one will remove the carpet until the leak is fixed. When will that be? I don't know.

Ahhh, bureaucracy.

Tarred and bothered

2008-02-14T10:56:00.000-08:00

I don't have a significant head injury story to share, but I am slightly nauseous. Our aged building is getting a new roof, and the smell of freshly melted tar is wafting through the office. It's like the La Brea tar pits out there, but I doubt there are any mammoth fossils to be discovered. Most likely a cigarette butt or too have been unearthed while scraping away the old tar paper. The roofing crew don't even wear masks. The smoke coming off of that tar machine is really thick, but they seem impervious to the fumes.

This morning, due to high winds, patches of insulation went flying over the side of the building and landed near the entrance. A couple of stray pieces fell onto a customer's car. The stuff looked exactly like plywood and I was afraid it was going to conk somebody right on the head, opening us up to a lawsuit, so I went running down to find the security guard. He was standing by the front window, watching the insulation fall.

"You need to tell the roofing crew to keep this stuff from falling off the building," I said. "It's going to hurt someone."

"Yeah, I was going to go out there at 9 and tell them."

Our security guard was watching it happen, actually saw a customer go and remove it from the hood of her car, yet stayed inside, transfixed by the sight. Unbelievable. He's more of a bystander than a security guard, if you ask me. It's enough to make me want to go and learn how to shoot a gun, maybe even get a conceal and carry license so I can protect myself and my co-workers. It's obvious if something really big goes down, our guard will be the first casualty. Probably his gun flap is rusted shut or something. Sheesh.

I guess there's a very real chance I could end up with a significant head injury by the time this roof is finished. Pray for me.

"Coolness"

2008-02-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

I've never been cool.

I accepted the fact that I wasn't cool long before I could really even define what cool was. There was no way I could be cool -- not by wearing clothes out of the church donation box or, later, those found in discount stores. In high school, I loved being a band nerd. At least I had plenty of band nerd friends with whom to congregate. Safety in numbers.

My boys, however, strive to be cool. They aren't yet asking for the expensive tennis shoes or blue jeans, but they certainly want to blend in with the crowd: hairstyles, attitude, and mismatched socks.

Apparently, it's not "cool" to wear a warm coat. Even though it was 15 degrees outside this morning, neither child would don anything heavier than a hoody. If the bus should break down or the family van run out of gas, those two would freeze their tushes off. They don't know the meaning of the word "preparedness."

Lego could style his hair to accentuate the curls he was born with, but he prefers to slick it down over his forehead. Sport has a closet full of nice clothes, but he wears the same ratty t-shirts to school every week. When we do our Saturday running-around, they invariably leave their coats at home, counting on the van heater to keep them warm.

If we do end up with a flat tire, I'm not giving my coat to anyone. Unlike the boys, I don't strive for coolness. I'd much rather be comfortable. And nerdy.

Mental health break

2008-01-25T14:08:00.000-08:00

How many 5-year-olds could you take on in a fight? I took the test and I could take down 15 of the little rugrats. Check it out:

http://www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com/

Be brutal. They'll fight dirty if given the chance.

Mix and match

2008-01-14T13:26:00.000-08:00

I've seen it all.

While waiting for the incredibly inept pharmacy assistant to train the excrutiatingly slow cashier how to download and print a digital passport photo for me, I passed the time by watching shoppers amble up and down the aisles at Walgreens. Entertaining me while comparing prices for a variety of cold medicines was a woman clad in sweatpants and a real fur coat.

It was real, I'm telling you. The luxurious pelts swayed gently as their owner squatted to look at the ingredients in Tylenol Cold & Flu.

I'm not big on fur anyway, although I wouldn't harrass anyone and I certainly wouldn't waste a perfectly good bucket of red paint by tossing it at a hapless flu victim, but I did turn down my mother when she tried to pass on her mink coat to me. It's just not cold enough here, I reasoned. Plus, I don't know a single person my age who wears furs. Wearing one would really make me feel out of place. And I'd never mix and match it with a worn pair of sweat pants.

But who am I to make fashion judgements. I have been known to throw on my purple sweats, a pink shirt, and my husband's oversized red coat. Not exactly color-wheel friendly.

When I finally got my passport photo handed to me, I looked like I just got out of rehab. Perfect.

Hand over the chocolate...

2008-01-09T14:14:00.000-08:00

It made national headlines: our mayor put the entire city on a diet. Our family, without his prompting, had already decided to cut out the junk we'd been grazing on throughout December, substituting fruit and low-fat snacks.

Everyone is starting to get cranky.

I bought a bag of chocolate chips over the weekend and have been doling them out -- one chip at a time -- after dinner.

"It's not worth it," SO protested, eyeballing the tiny nub of chocolate. I made a motion to put it back in the bag. He stopped me by popping it in his mouth.

"Let it melt and you'll get a satisfying taste of chocolate."

"I'd find the whole bag satisfying," he retorted.

When my back is turned, I find the kids raiding the fridge, desperate for something that isn't healthy. They want that bag of chocolate chips.

I've hidden it, but it won't be long until they find it and finish it up. Their willpower is waning in the wake of grapes, yogurt and energy bars.

We are the 15th fattest city in the country. I know this is true. When I'm shopping at Target or one of the grocery stores, I inevitably see people wedged into those motorized grocery carts. These people aren't handicapped. They are just extremely obese. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw someone in one of those things who had some kind of physical challenge, other than carrying around way too many pounds.

I really hate those motorized carts. They always block the aisles when I'm trying to load up on bags of chocolate chips.

Champagne and bean dip

2008-01-02T11:48:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve has never been a big celebration in our family. Growing up evangelical, santimonious, and holy, we rather looked down on those revellers who needed alcohol to get high. We were already high on Jesus -- what more did one need? So we always stayed in, watched a little Dick Clark on TV, then went to bed.

For one, I don't like being cold. The idea of getting out in 20 degree temperatures, with the added benefit of a cutting Oklahoma wind, just doesn't appeal to me. A couple of my very young friends drove down to Dallas to go to a bar they like. So while I salute their energy and enthusiasm, I kept to the time-honored tradition of warm pajamas, a can of bean dip, and Dick Clark (bless his heart, still soldiering on despite a stroke.) Weakened by endless commercials, we cheered feebly when the newly refurbished Times Square ball (it's eco-friendly!) came down to usher in the New Year.

SO and I toasted with a glass of bitter, dry champagne, while the boys drank their sparkling cider. I eyeballed my flute glasses nervously when they insisted on clinking them together.

"Cheers!"

Lego begged to try a sip of alcohol.

I, of course, refused.

"There's alcoholism in your genes. One sip, mister, and you could be in for at least 36 years of hard core addicition, a couple of divorces, loss of a limb, and the repossession of your home." Lego rolled his eyes, a typical response to my overly-imaginative ramblings, then staggered into the kitchen, perfectly imitating a drunken man. That kid can act, I'm telling you.

The next day, Sport checked the calendar.

"Is it 2008?"

"All year."

He sighed. "I really miss 2007."

All I wanted for Christmas

2007-12-28T12:14:00.000-08:00

Well, I asked for world peace, but I guess I'll settle for some Tinker Toys.

I did finish a major project, though. In the last few months, I've been hard at work with St. Fiacre, and there's a real possibility that we'll be getting our JNF book published shortly featuring the biographies of 10 Oklahoma heroes. Pretty exciting. I'm trying not to be too anxious to see the finished project.

I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas, but plans are in the works. My heart's desire was to get a new passport. Mine expired years ago after taking a really amazing trip to Israel and Egypt. Now I want to have one in case I ever get the chance to go somewhere overseas (Australia and New Zealand, I'm thinking) or need to make a quick getaway when Bush dissolves the Constitution and declares himself King of America. I have my application all filled out and have located the closest office to my home and I even pulled my old passport out of storage. All I need now is to figure out if it will serve as proof of residency or if I need to get a certified birth certificate (another $27 -- ugh!).

Funniest thing that happened during our Christmas break: Sport was practicing for his Christmas recital and he was barely concentrating, making all kinds of mistakes.

Aware of the kid's reputation for wowing the audience, SO told him, "You are going to lose your legacy."

"What, are you going to tear them off?" Sport asked in a huff.

Be careful what you wish for

2007-12-12T11:21:00.000-08:00

I will have to remember this maxim the next time I start moaning and groaning about the dullness of our routine: Be careful what you wish for. While it is often rather boring, I prefer the routine to chaos. And what we've got this week is chaos.

Sunday evening was the beginning of the Great Ice Storm of 2007. Monday morning, 2:13 a.m. The power went out. By 7 that morning, our waterbed was feeling a bit chilly and the bedrooms were getting cold. Looking outside our front window, we found our beautiful Bradford Pear tree had been peeled into 4 pieces, just like a banana. We'd planted that tree 10 years ago when Sport was a baby. We were all rather sick at heart to see it splayed out in such an undignified way. It was blocking part of the road, part of our driveway, and some of the front door.

"We'll panic at noon if the power doesn't come up," I said to SO. We bundled up and went out to start cutting limbs. Next door, my sister-in-law and niece were trying to de-ice their cars. An occasional CRACK! would have us shouting, "Run!" as we dodged large branches snapping and falling from the top of their tree.

Down the street, an enormous branch of a sycamore tree was blocking the road. We joined a group of neighbors to help move it out of the way. That sucker was heavy! But it was nice to see neighbors working together toward a common purpose.

At 12 o'clock on the dot, I said to SO, "We'll panic if the power isn't on by 4." The boys played with their army men while the adults tried to read but all of us ended of falling asleep. Another branch fell, taking out our telephone line.

By 4, we started to panic. Actually, we started making long-term plans for the night. Our gas-lit fireplace would keep the library and tv room warm, so we closed off the rest of the house, dragged in the boys' mattresses, and gathered up blankets, candles, and flashlights. For dinner, we ate at a local diner, along with just about everyone else who had no power. Despite it all, we were in a festive mood. We even got a piece of chocolate pie to-go. The house was pitch black and we all were asleep by 7:30.

The next day, it was more of the same. SO and the boys headed out to his folks' house to hang out while I went into work at 10. This morning, with school cancelled once again, I grabbed the crock pot and ingredients so I could whip something up at work using the electrical outlets. It looks like we could be living this way for a week to ten days, although I'm praying the power will come back on tonight. Sleeping on the couch is hard on my spine!

We're lucky, though. We have hot water and so many friends have offered to take us in. At this point, we are still willing to rough it. I'm really rooting for those OG&E guys to make it to our neighborhood today.

5 things

2007-12-05T13:20:00.000-08:00

In the last couple of weeks, these 5 things have made me happy.

1. Sunrise this morning, 7:05 a.m.: The clouds looked like cotton batting colored with a mix of magenta and pumpkin hues. I tried to imagine what that kind of sunrise would have looked like 100 years ago, without all the buildings, telephone poles, and highway bridges blocking the view.

2. Dinner at Louie's last night with SO: the fried cheese was delicious, we took our time, and no one interrupted us to tell us about video games or wrestlers. Every now and then, we just have to get out of our routine.

3. Botero exhibit at the art museum: I enjoyed seeing another perspective of the human form.

4. A box of flexible straws: My dear friend at work knows of my obsession with straws and she bought me an entire box!

5. A spontaneous hug and "I love you" from LegoGuy, and a competitive game of cards with Sport. He was killing us in a game of 21. He laughed so hard, he like to bust a gut.

Satan's secret garden

2007-11-25T16:19:00.000-08:00

Years ago, when Lego was in the 4th grade, we decided to read The Secret Garden together. Lego was only starting to like reading. A late bloomer, he didn't much care for independent reading, but he enjoyed being read to. We spent many pleasant hours with Mary and Dickon and Colin. He took the A.R. test at school and passed with flying colors.

With Sport entering the 4th grade, I decided it would be a good idea to repeat the project. Instead of hours of enjoyment, the book became a hellish nightmare. Sport, unlike Lego, could not sit still for more than five minutes without an attack of the wiggles. He twitched and spasmed as I struggled to read prose written in the early 1900s. We were more than halfway through by the end of the summer, and I refused to give it up. All I could focus on was the 7 A.R. points he would get after we were done.

I began to dread picking that book up. If we could get through a couple of pages each night, I felt like we'd accomplished something. Sport was supposed to be reading a several paragraphs out loud to practice his skills. Some of the writing was torturous to get through:

"Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get into it? Shall I live to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "Of course you'll see it!" snapped Mary indignantly. "Of course you'll live to get into it! Don't be silly!" And she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and Colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured.

Sport prefers action-adventure stories and he really didn't have the patience to read a book like this. He would probably have been happier if there'd been some kind of demon lurking in the garden rather than slumbering bulbs and perennials. I must confess by the end of the novel I was right sick of the entire plot and each and every character. I wanted to smother Colin and ship Mary back to India. Really, I only could bear Dickon because he was so great with animals.

We finished the thing Sunday night and thank God I don't have any more kids with whom I might be deluded enough to try reading it again. Sport did a victory dance when we got done. I'll do one when he takes that damn A.R. test and passes.

Psychic abilities

2007-11-15T07:01:00.001-08:00

Another Sunday, another volunteer opportunity with the Kindergarten and 1st grade Sunday school classroom. All fourteen bright and shiny faces watched eagerly as their teacher passed out the craft materials. As her helper, I stood by to assist in the project.

"Today, we will be making ears of corn to celebrate Thanksgiving."

First came the pipe cleaners, then an open tub of beads. Hundreds of beads. Thousands of beads. Tiny little beads.

Immediately, I flashed forward into the future. I saw myself on my hands and knees, picking beads off the floor. I knew without a doubt that in minutes, that tub of beads was going to be dumped over.

I worked with a group over at my table. Our beads were distributed from a plastic baggie that I kept firmly gripped in my hands. One of my boys wanted all silver beads for his corn decoration. When he had exhausted our supply of beads, he went over to the other table to search for more silver.

Of course, the tub went flying. Beads spread all over the floor and to every corner of the room.

Sighing, I went in search of a broom. Another psychic might have used it to fly away from her duties. Instead, I cleaned up the floor.

"I admire your patience," said the Youth Director. He'd mistaken my calm acceptance for patience.

The next time that box of beads comes out, I swear I'm running out the door.

By popular demand

2007-11-06T12:58:00.000-08:00

Here's the photo of the doggie bed:

Happy now?

My brush with mental illness

2007-10-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

I am a reasonable person. I'm neither extravagant nor excessive. I look for bargains and shop at thrift stores. I'm not cheap, but I'm careful with my money.

Over the weekend, however, I flirted with flamboyance. I took a walk on the wild side.

It all started a couple years ago at one of Sport's endless piano competitions. We were wasting time in between rounds, walking up and down Main Street of a tiny Oklahoma town. And then, I saw it: the most precious little dog bed ever handcrafted by man (or woman).

I'm not one of those kooky pet owners. I don't coddle my dog, dress her in costumes at Halloween, or buy warm sweaters for her to wear during the winter. She sleeps on an old pillow and a worn blanket that the boys no longer use.

But I wanted that bed.

At the time, Bella was still a little pup. I imagined her perched under the canopy like a prop out of an interior design magazine. The outrageous price tag stopped me cold. In my heart, I knew I could make that bed. All it would take was an old dresser drawer, some spray paint, padding, and a pink fleece blanket.

Thus began my search.

For two years, I've kept watch for an old chest of drawers, tossed in the trash by a neighbor too lazy to donate it to AmVets or the Salvation Army. I finally found the perfect drawer last Sunday during Big Trash Day. My chance at creating a masterpiece had finally come!

I dug through my craft boxes and found a used can of black spray paint. I attempted to saw away a piece of the drawer, but had to ask a friend of my neighbor to actually do the sawing since my toothpick-like biceps did not have the strength to pull the metal through the wood. I glued part of the drawer back together, and when Elmer's didn't hold, I resorted to my trusty old staple gun. I cut up an old egg crate mattress pad and made an adorable bolster pillow out of black and white fabric. After a good wash, Bella's pink blanket looked perfect against the glossy black. After five hours of work, the fancy bed was ready for its occupant.

And Bella wouldn't lie in it. She wouldn't even go near it. I even tucked a delicious treat inside it to entice her. She approached the thing like it was going to go for her throat, snatched the snack, and ran off to hide.

Now, part of me -- the rational part -- knew that Bella would not sleep in this bed. It observed my frantic crafting with a weary resignation. Nothing could have stopped me from making that bed, not even my subconscious realization that I was wasting precious hours of my Sunday afternoon working on it. I suppose I just wanted to prove to myself that I could make something that closely resembled the fancy, extravagant bed I'd seen in the store.

Well, I did it. Now it sits in the garage, waiting for a sleepy occupant who's not afraid of everything.

Big Trash Day

2007-10-16T08:17:00.000-07:00

Sunday night we had another one of those furious Oklahoma thunderstorms blow through. In a matter of minutes, the streets were flooded, trees were bent sideways in 50+ mile-an-hour winds, and the sky was filled with dancing bolts of lightning. I looked out the window and watched a small boat bobbing down the road.

It was the night before Big Trash Day, one of my guilty pleasures.

Officially called Fall Clean-Up, we were notified by the city a couple of weeks ago. Neighbors have dutifully been cleaning out their garages, sheds, attics, and backyards and dragging the junk to the curb. Refrigerators, mattresses, stockade fences, broken swings, and an ungodly amount of toilets wait patiently to be hauled away. (I try not to think about how long it takes for this stuff to decay. Those porcelain thrones will probably still be there 10,000 years into the future.)

I rolled out a broken lawnmower and a torn up mini-trampoline, and SO piled up some branches and rotten plywood.

Once the stuff is on the curb, the eyeballing begins. Unfamiliar trucks appear in the neighborhood. Burly men with handyman skills load up fridges and grills, tables with broken legs, and chairs that lean too much to the left. Someone nabbed our lawnmower only moments after I'd put it outside. I admire the fact that these items will be either fixed or stripped to be used as spare parts. I like knowing that they won't yet be taken to the landfill.

Lego and I spied a couple of redwood benches that were in great shape. Giggling, we ran over and spirited them away to the back garden. Then, we drove around in the mini-van, looking for something else that grabbed our attention. All we found were two very nice pots that would look lovely if planted with some fall mums.

But, no matter. I still have Spring Clean-Up to look forward to, Big Trash Day: The Sequel.

Survivor -- Mean Mommies edition

2007-10-05T13:41:00.001-07:00

My new read is Confessions of a prep school mommy handler, by Wade Rouse. I picked it up because I enjoyed reading his America's boy: a memoir.

Rouse is a gay man, Southern born and bred, hired as a PR director at a prestigious private school, and the book goes into details about his dealings with very pretty, very mean, very rich mommies of elite elementary students.

I'm enjoying it so far, although it's not exactly funny. Biting and sad, more likely. Never having been incredibly wealthy, I find it hard to imagine being so proudly shallow. I'd like to think I'd never cave in to the kind of peer pressure that forces me to wear pink every day, call my daughter Itsy Bitsy, or dress my teacup poodle in a matching outfit. But, having been a victim of my share of mean girls, it might be difficult to ignore the siren's song of popularity.

You want me to buy a Louis Vuitton handbag, wear a Lilly Pulitzer dress, and host a Botox party?

I can do that.

No, wait. I can't. I won't do that! Go away, mean mommies!

What I'd really like to see is a bunch of hyper-wealthy women stranded on a deserted island and watch as their civilized veneer is stripped away -- along with their four figure wardrobes -- their roots grow out into gray, and they start eating bark off the trees. Now that's the kind of reality TV I'd enjoy.

What is the sound of one parent clapping?

2007-09-12T06:37:00.000-07:00

Pet peeve #27: graduation ceremonies.

Since becoming a mother, I've noticed a curious phenomenon: after every supposed milestone, the powers that be organize and hold a graduation ceremony. Kindergarten, Sunday School, Tae Kwon Do class, you name it, there's always some kind of ceremony parents must endure in order to encourage and propel our children on to the next level.

On Sunday, I drove up to get LegoGuy after his leadership conference and sat through yet another graduation ceremony. The ballroom was packed with anxious parents, eager to collect their kids and get the hell out of there. But no, first we had to sit through multiple speeches, a slide show with rockin' music accompaniment, and the handing out of certificates.

Thirty minutes later, hands numb from obligatory clapping, we were free. Lego talked non-stop on the 2 hour drive home about his experience. He had a good time. The info was somewhat boring, he said, but the kids were awesome and he'd made lots of friends. A girl gave him her phone number! He told stories about one of his new best friends, some kid from Shawnee, who was 14 and had already had sex with his girlfriend and had a naked picture of her on his cellphone wallpaper.

I shivered, wondering what kind of peer pressure this was going to exert on my son, but Lego also told me he'd resisted efforts by his roommate to get him to go to a "party" in one of the other rooms in which the girls were invited down as well. He figured it wouldn't make me happy if he got kicked out, and of course, these troublemaker wannabees were caught anyway and sent back to their rooms, so maybe the kid has a pretty solid head on his shoulders after all.

I think he was as bored as I was during the graduation ceremony. But he sure did look all grown up. The four days he was gone gave me a glimpse into the future, toward the day when SO and I drive him up to college, or to the Air Force Academy, or wherever his path lies.

Voldemort can't stop the rock

2007-08-20T12:14:00.000-07:00

The boys are aficionados of Wizard Rock. This started a couple of years ago with an introduction to Harry and the Potters. They moved into a darker realm with Draco and the Malfoys. Over the weekend, we had the opportunity to hear The Remus Lupins sing at one of the libraries. Opening acts were Ginny and the Heartbreakers and The Whomping Willows.

I've always been impressed with the creativity that comes with this level of fandom. While the voices might not always be exactly on key, and the music might be off a little, the lyrics these kids write are pretty good. That being said, I shudder to think what the next months will be like as the boys play their newly-purchased CDs over and over again. I've already heard way too much of the Wizard Rock albums they already have. Let's just say it's not a peaceful way to spend an evening.

Once the warm-up bands had played, it was time for The Remus Lupins. A spry group of young men jumped onto the stage and urged everyone to come up to the front and dance. Luckily, I'd run into the Crafty Minx, and she was willing to go up with me and give it a whirl. Lego, ever the watcher, declined. He stood beside me, but refused to dance, sway or even tap a toe. Sport took his lead from his big brother and remained stoic. They were like sour little Southern Baptist ministers in their quest to remain cool.

So it was left up to me, Crafty Minx, about 35 girls under the age of 21, and 4 boys to be an interested and energetic audience. The other adults stayed in their chairs. We rocked out for about an hour. My feet started to hurt. I realized I was the only person over the age of 40 up there. I tried to swivel my hips in a sad imitation of the girls in front of me, but those years I spent as Nancy Nazarene killed the rhythm in me.

As Sport glowered at me ("You're embarrassing me!" he hissed), I thought back to a birthday party I'd taken him to when he was about 3. Someone put on ABBA's Dancing Queen.

"Dance with me, Mommy!" he begged. I grabbed him and we whirled across the gym floor. He wasn't the least bit self-conscious.

It's so sad when they start wanting to be "cool" and forget how to have fun. But maybe it will come back. There were plenty of college boys in the back, jumping up and down and rocking out to the music.

They were probably drunk.

Of semi-interest

2007-08-17T12:59:00.000-07:00

A number of semi-interesting things have happened to me this week. For my two faithful readers, I thought I'd bring you up-to-date.

Heard from my friend Snickers, who decided to take a life-changing leap of faith, quit his well-paying, career-track job, and is heading back to Washington, D.C. All I can say is, it's about time!
Had a vivid dream about an old college buddy. I was curious, what ever happened to A.C.? We lost touch two decades ago. Long story short, I called the college alumni office and found out he was living here in my city, just up the road in the same school district! Married, with triplet 8-year-old daughters, he's still got that West Texas twang. We enjoyed a nice catch-up call.
I'm working on a big project with The Saint, and if all goes well, I'll have some great news to share. If it doesn't go well, at least I gave it a shot and it was fun to try.
The boys are back in school. Thank God. Lego's observation about his first day: "It's great being in 8th grade and having all that power." Sport had nothing to say, but I have to share this little jewel. Driving with his dad, Sport confided, "I cuss a lot in my dreams."
One of my work buddies took a step on the path of academia, leaving for Louisiana to pursue a master's degree. I miss him, but I feel like I had a small part in encouraging him to go for it. Maybe I'll get a book dedication out of it.
Lego was in our local paper. They published a press release about his nomination to NYLSC. Is okay to be busting out all over with pride over this?

Other than that, it's been too damn hot to try and come up with a good blog posting. I'll try to think of something

"Everything's a quarter!"

2007-08-06T08:23:00.000-07:00

If I ever entertain the notion of having another garage sale, kill me.

We probably picked the hottest weekend of the summer to do it, but thanks to friends and family we had about a million donated items to price and made about half the cost of LegoGuy's registration for NYLSC. Thanks to everyone who contributed a box of knick-knacks, clothes, dishes, etc. And the furniture ... especially the furniture. That was the first to sell.

One thing I learned is that no matter how clever or self-explanatory a pricing system you come up with, everyone is going to ask, "How much is this?" When I went to bed Saturday night, it's the phrase that kept coursing through my mind.

"HowMuchIsThisHowMuchIsThisHowMuchIsThis?"

As the mercury shot up, I started yelling out, "Everything's a quarter." Nevertheless, we had lots of items left over, many of which will be travelling south for yet another garage sale given by hearty souls who don't mind the heat.

At one point, Sport had the opportunity to hold a $100 bill and shivered with delight. I had to stop him from rubbing it all over his body.

"It's a hundred dollars," he whispered giddily.

"It's just a piece of paper," I told him. His eyes followed the bill as I placed it in our money box. I think he would have slept with it if we'd let him.

Although it's not in his nature, Lego tried to work the crowd, handing out little slips of paper that explained what we were trying to accomplish with the garage sale. He met a couple whose son had gone many years ago and who was now a pilot with Continental Airlines. He thought that was pretty cool.

As for me, I stood in an ice-cold shower when it was all over. It still took me 2 days to feel normal again.

And my feet still hurt.

Next station, Muggle Town

2007-07-22T17:46:00.000-07:00

I've done it. I've finished the book. I've been shown the exit to Potter world and said goodbye to Harry, Hermione, Snape, McGonagall, and the rest of them. I raced through the story like a crack whore looking for the ultimate fix. Certainly, I'll have to re-read it after SO and LegoGuy have had a go at it. At least it tied up all the loose ends. But it certainly did meander in the middle. That's all I'm gonna say right now.

We went to our last pre-release party on Friday night. I threw on a blonde wig and went as Luna Lovegood, Sport looked like an authentic Harry, and Lego outdid us all by turning himself into Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch keeper. Many people wanted to take their picture (but sadly, not mine). They were so adorable. I simply looked creepy.

The party did not live up to our expectations. Lots of people showed up in costume, but there was only a pathetic booth set up in the back for dream interpretation and a lame spelling bee taking place without a microphone for amplification. I think you had to be under 12 to participate. I got some funny looks when I stood in line behind some little 4th grader, who took her time spelling "port key." I stepped out of the line reluctantly. Looking at the weary faces of the book store employees, I could tell they were ready for this hype to be over with so they could get back to the business of discussing Nabokov with gray-haired doctoral in a nearly empty building.

The first pre-release party I took Lego to was for The Prisoner of Azkaban. I didn't tell him what I was up to. I let him go to bed, them woke him at 10 o'clock and bundled him into the car. "We're going for a drive. It's a surprise." He was half asleep for most of the ride, but perked up when we pulled into the Borders parking lot. It truly was a festive atmosphere. Children and their parents were rushing from booth to booth, getting tattoos, making wands, buying butterbeers. Cashiers were practically bursting with enthusiasm. We were all united in our excitement over the next installmant of Harry's story, and all shared the singular joy of reading.

I don't know that another book will bring this kind of hysterical adoration again, but I'm glad it's been a part of the boys' childhood.

Doubtful I'll ever get a chance to say it to her in person, so thanks J.K. Rowling, for bringing a little bit of magic into our lives.

I don't know if Lego and Sport will continue to read anything else with such devotion, but I do think we've all had a blast getting acquainted with the characters Rowling created.

That's enough.

Harry Potter and the annoying movie audience

2007-07-12T18:13:00.000-07:00

The wands are back: sticks broken off of the tree out front. The robe is back, too, wrinkled from its long slumber at the bottom of the toybox. Bella has been renamed "Bellatrix" and choruses of Expelliarmus! fill the air. Sport drew a lightning bolt on his forehead and LegoGuy got his Hogwarts Lego set out of the closet and is back at work reconstructing the castle. We've just come from the new Harry Potter movie and the boys are neck deep in Pottermania.

The movie's great fun-- especially if you've read all the books, which we have. What's not so great (and what I always seem to forget about later) is the movie-going experience. Nine times out of ten, I have a terrible time. It's one thing to afford the luxury of renting out a theater for one's entire family, but Elvis, we ain't. Going to see a movie means getting elbow-to-elbow with a hodgepodge of the general public. And, to modify Forest Gump's truisim, "A movie audience is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get."

I knew we were in trouble when I watched a woman, her husband, and 4 children move up the stairs and right to the seats directly in front of us. She was wearing a spaghetti strap top and her flesh was practically oozing out of the top and sides. He husband had his left hand wrapped in bandages, frozen in a permanent "Heil Hitler" gesture. The children were whining, and Big Momma kept telling them to shut up. Loudly. All six of them were clutching extra large vats of popcorn. They stood in front of us while the previews were rolling, not even bothering to pretend to duck out of the way so we could see what was on the screen.

"Let's move down a few seats," I whispered to SO, who hates to make a scene. I knew he wouldn't want to move, but I couldn't see what was going on. We all shifted down a bit, and I hoped for the best.

Unfortunately, we ended up near a Granny and her grandaughter, a kid all of 5 years old who had no idea how to control her curiousity and excitement. This little girl chattered through the whole movie. Being a mother, I understand the nature of a child. It's hard to sit still through a long film. Sometimes it's hard to follow the plot or to catch what someone is saying. I know that kids are going to fidget. But it's up to the adult to teach the child how to act in public. Granny never once shushed the kid, never asked to lower her voice, not once did she pay heed to my curiously ineffective dirty looks. In fact, the two of them continued to carry on conversations in what Barney calls "an outside voice" through the entire episode-- and if I'd had a working wand I wouldn't have hesitated to throw a Sectumsempra their way.

Meanwhile, Big Momma and Heil Hitler went for a popcorn refill and she ended up choking on the salty snack 3 or 4 times during the movie. I actually considered withholding my first aid skills for a moment when it appeared that she had a kernel lodged in her windpipe. But I muttered Evanesco to myself and she was able to catch her breath.

She later fell in the parking lot. I swear I didn't throw a Impedimenta her way.

Wherefore art thou, RadCat?

2007-07-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

It's only the first day of RadCat's vacation, and already a pall has settled upon all of us. His empty seat -- so vacant, so lonely -- calls out to all of us. One by one, co-workers take a turn sitting in the chair, but nothing, no one can take his place. His laughter echoes off other walls. His political commentaries tickle the ears of others. His cell phone rings in another state. We are left only with a light dusting of black gunk from the air conditioning vent above his desk, and a framed photo of Tiny Kiss, posing for a non-existent audience. Oh RadCat, two weeks is such a long time!

Besides missing my little brother, I've been pretty busy. Took my grandmother to church with me on Sunday. She was eager to get out of the care center. My church is probably the most liberal church in Oklahoma City, and we are open and affirming. Unlike other area churches, all are welcome, despite sexual orientation.

"It's not anything like a Nazarene church," I warned her. She had been, after all, the wife of two pastors, one Nazarene and one Methodist. But Grandma has always been a open-minded individual, and she wasn't at all bothered about visiting a UCC church. In fact, she had nothing but praise for the building, the visiting preachers (ours is on vacation) and the people.

Her one complaint? "There aren't that many good looking men here, are there?"

At least there weren't that many over the age of 80.

What I learned on my summer vacation

2007-06-25T18:47:00.000-07:00

Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Our vacation now at an end, I come back older, a little wiser, and hopefully with a bit of a tan.

What did I learn?

No matter how well stocked you are with snacks and drinks, the food invariably runs out. We had to hit the grocery store at least three times during our six day adventure. Those boys can eat!

LegoGuy thinks Shirley Temple was some kind of psychotic orphan who went around killing people. During one of our nightly games of Cranium, he had to act like the dimpled child star and have his teammate guess who he was. The clue? "Hey everybody, let's go kill someone!"

Bugs really freak out the guys. Every spider, insect or creepy crawly was potentially poisonous. I ended up catching most of them with a rag and tossing them outside while my menfolk hugged the wall.

No one under the age of 15 will look out the window at the incredible mountain vistas and scenic plateaus if there are GI Joes in the car. Sport and Lego engaged their soldiers in epic battles and reenacted soccer games while we drove through the beautiful Valles Grande Caldera. What was outside wasn't nearly as interesting as what was going on in their own imaginations.

Sport has a healthy fear of heights, rattlesnakes and lightning. At Bandelier, we came upon a rattlesnake. It wasn't coiled but stared at us with a baleful eye. "I'm too young to die," Sport said, hurrying us around the thing. He kept an eye on the sky in case an afternoon storm made an appearance, and he was leery of the ladders leading up to the cliffside ruins. "I really wish I wanted to climb those," he told me as Lego headed 140 feet up to Alcove House. "It's okay to be careful," I told him. "You'll probably outlive us all!"

Avril Lavigne has a potty mouth. We've had 3 of her songs on our last three compilation trip CDs and each one has an off-color word in it. We usually don't realize this until we're speeding along at 75 miles an hour and the word comes blasting through the speakers. It only makes the boys love her more.

The last 60 miles of the trip are always the longest. I swear, when we hit Weatherford I thought I was going to lose it. That hour crept by. I love planning a vacation, but there's nothing like getting home. Nothing beats it.

Good vibrations

2007-06-24T12:10:00.000-07:00

The white water rafting trip never materialized. Half of the family weren't too keen on the idea, and the other half weren't willing to push it. Instead, we took a scenic drive up to Taos, which is, in my opinion, one of most beautiful places in the country. Too overpriced, too pretentious, too touristy -- I know -- but I could sit in a parking lot eating an ice cream cone from Baskin Robbins, just looking out at the scenery and I'd be completely happy.

Our destination wasn't the Taos Plaza or the Taos Pueblo, but the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge. Spanning the river which winds 650 feet below, this thing was an adrenaline surge for all of us. SO and Sport are scared of heights, and they walked across with care. "Vertigo, vertigo," Sport kept chanting, but he managed to hang on to the rail and peek over.

When a semi-truck went barreling across, the entire bridge started to buck and sway. I watched as LegoGuy's cheeks rippled with the vibrations. Awesome! We peered into the river and saw rafts full of people floating down the rapids. We vowed one day to take a trip.

When given the choice to tour the Taos Plaza or go back to the casita and swim, the boys chose swimming. Despite more than four centuries of history, our children would rather splash in a chlorinated pool. Go figure.

The great cricket hunt

2007-06-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

It's about 95 degrees at the Los Alamos public library. I'm crammed between an older woman, possibly with hippie affiliations, and a very curious gentleman who keeps checking me out. It doesn't help that I'm sitting on a stool that towers over everybody else. Why am I the only one on a barstool?

Our casita at the Rancho Jacona doesn't have a computer for customer use, although there is a wifi setup. It's a beautiful place with a great view of the Jemez Mountains and the sound of peacocks piercing the air at unpredictable moments. After we spent about 4 hours hiking around the ruins of Bandelier National Monument, we located the rather isolated rancho and collapsed onto the bed. At least SO and I collapsed. The boys were dying to check out the pool. How they had the energy to swim, I'll never know. There were 3 little boys swimming, but did ours try to make friends? Of course not. I tried to help things along by introducing myself to the 3-year-old, who admired my toe-nail polish, but questioned the color. Eventually, the kids started squirting each other with pool cannons. The lure of weaponry finally overcame their shyness.

After wrestling the boys into bed, I popped a sleeping pill and prepared to sleep. Poor SO, on the other hand, without the benefit of tranquilizers, earplugs and a fan, had a terrible time. He popped out of bed after about an hour to locate the octet of crickets who were desperately trying to woo a mate. I joined in the hunt, squishing them with a dishtowel. Poor guys never knew what was coming, so intent were they on playing their romantic arias. Back in bed, we enjoyed the quiet until another started up, comfortable behind the refrigerator where we could not get him. I gave up, feeling the effects of the pill kicking in. SO struggled to relax.

Then, LegoGuy sleepwalked out the back door of the cabin and freaked SO out. Of course, by this time, I was unconscious and didn't hear a thing.

After visiting the Bradbury Science Museum (very cool) and the library (rather warm) we are going to look for a grocery store so we can buy a can of Raid and perhaps a chain lock for the casita doors. We don't want to find Lego face down in an arroyo tomorrow morning.

Not sure if we'll find another chance to blog, but we may be headed to Taos tomorrow to either do a white water float or drive the scenic route. Home, with luck, on Saturday night.

Tortilla blues

2007-06-19T04:58:00.000-07:00

There's something about a tiny pool shaped like a tortilla chip and a dozen teenagers that doesn't quite work. After our 8+ hour drive and eating at one of the delicious New Mexican restaurants, the boys wanted to unwind at the pool. SO and I flipped a coin to see who the unlucky chaperone would be. Me, of course.

But they were already there: a large group of hormonal, squealing girls and their equally hormonal though less giggly boys. I think they were a traveling choir, coming from God knows where. I'm pretty sure they were a singing group of some kind. Oddly, one of the boys continued to sing a phrase from a song that was popular when I was in college.

"Josie's on a vacation far away, come on in and talk it over..." At the top of his lungs.

Sarah Vowell does a hilarious bit for This American Life about the difference between choir kids and band kids. I'm sure I can't do it justice, but she says there's no way a band kid is going to start humming the harmony he usually plays on his baritone, while a choir kid doesn't hesitate to break into "How do you solve a problem like Maria" in the hallway while switching from 5th hour to 6th, and half a dozen of her friends will join in as well.

One girls was so loud, I kept giving her "the look." It usually works with my kids, but she was unaffected. She even called me "the woman," which annoyed me to no end. "Don't splash the woman!" she said in a baby voice that set women's rights back 30 years. I really despised her. She didn't want to get her hair wet, so of course, the boys immediately dunked her. Mascara ran down her cheeks like a bruise.

When my tender ears couldn't take it anymore, I rounded up the boys so we could shower and go downtown to walk around the plaza. I had a better time talking to the Santa Fe Public librarians. They were much more composed and called me "young lady."

My pride was soothed.

Tatooed

2007-06-18T05:33:00.000-07:00

Before we left for Santa Fe, the boys were suddenly gripped with an inexplicable desire to cover themselves with tattoos. They dug through the junk drawer in the kitchen to find every last square of colored ink given to them by Shank, or brought home by their dad, or remnants of tattoos purchased from Pizza Inn. Rags dripping with water, the images were applied while I was trying to make a list of groceries to buy for our trip. When I finally paid attention to what was going on, it was too late. They were painted warriors ready to head into the mountains.

After 3 days of planning and packing, I think I'm ready to go. SO made an awesome trip CD compiled of songs we've collected over the year that we really love. Like last year, we'll probably play it so much we won't be able to listen to it for at least 6 months.

Bella's safely tucked away with the in-laws, and it looks like the storm outside is finally settling down a bit.

Go west!

In praise of teachers

2007-06-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

I was worship leader at church today. At Gouldie's request, who was teaching Sunday School and missed it, I'm posting my Prayers of the People (PotP) essay here.

On the first day of summer vacation, I got a two word email from SO.

"Help me!"

Less than six hours with the boys, and he was already going crazy. It made me appreciate their teachers that much more. There's a special place in heaven for those who love, guide, and inspire our children.

A teacher changed my life.

Sixth grade, 1974. I was no different from most 11-year-olds. I'd learned it was best to stay silent, not make waves, limit contact, don't make trouble, get my work done. I escaped the notice of most, save for a hefty, glowering Laura Pacheco, who derived a special joy out of jumping on my back and knocking me to the ground.

My teacher, Mrs. Roessler, saved me: curls held away from her temples by a pair of bobby pins, a broad smile, contagious laugh. She moved me to the front of the room near her desk, giving me special responsibilities and privileges. She praised me in front of the whole class, encouraged my love of reading, noticed me.

What did she see in me? Why did she pick me out from a classroom of similar children? Perhaps I was only one of many she mentored. What would have changed in my life if she hadn't noticed me -- a shy, buck-toothed kid -- where would I be now if she hadn't acted out of love to make me feel special?

I left Mrs. Roessler's class with a newly discovered sense of self-esteem. Though I couldn't describe it then, I was empowered. Up to that point in time, I'd always thought of myself as a victim, someone who had to suffer. I deserved to be bullied. In the words of my fundamentalist Christian upbringing, I suffered because I was born into sin, and suffering brought me closer to Christ. I didn't realize how soul crushing that particular philosphy was.

When I was encouraged, nurtured, loved by another person, I was freed from a crippling sense of worthlessness. Mrs. Roessler removed a barried. She pushed me down a road I didn't even know existed.

One of the most deeply spiritual moments I've ever had came not in a church but in a darkened theater. It was at a performance of Les Miserables. Jan Valjean, a prisoner on the run, is saved from another incarceration by a priest. Although Valjean has stolen silver candlesticks from the monastery, the priest claims the items were a gift, and the police leave without a prisoner.

"I have bought your soul for God," says the priest. Valjean spends the rest of his life trying to make his life worthy of such a purchase.

At the end of the performance, Valjean lies dying. He has made mistakes, such as inadvertently causing the death of Fantine. He has also made atonements, as in raising Fantine's young daughter. Had he done enought? Was he now worthy of the priest's intervention?

"To love another person is to see the face of God," sings the spirit of Fantine. I have never felt a truth so deeply.

Like Valjean, I have spent my life trying to live up to the potential Mrs. Roessler saw in me. And I want to pass that love along, to catch a glimpse of God's face.

And He'll be smiling.

Bottlefinger

2007-06-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

We visited the taqueria on Saturday. LegoGuy loves the authentic Mexican tacos, and Sport wanted to try one of the 12 oz bottles of Coca Colas hecha en Mexico.

I don’t know if it’s nostalgia or the cane sugar, but damn, those Cokes taste good. I nearly chucked my can of Dr. Pepper and ordered one myself. As a kid, we used to get glass bottles of Coke down at our local ice house, along with a bag full of candy for about a quarter. We could bring those bottles back in for a 5 cent refund. It was a perfect circle of addiction. We’d spend hours looking for those green glass treasures, turning them back in at the end of the week for another sugar rush.

My kids treated these Coke bottles like a rare find. Both wanted to keep them as a collectible. Driving home, Lego was examining his in the hot afternoon sun. The next thing I knew, he had it stuck on his middle finger, jutting out like an overgrown obscene gesture.

“What on earth possessed you to stick your finger in there?” I tried to feign indignation, but it was too funny.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop myself.”

"Well, at least you didn't put a bean in your nose. That would be worse."

He looked so comical with that thing on his hand. Eventually, he turned it upside down and let the remaining cola lubricate his finger enough to pull it back off. This was my comic relief for the day. I couldn't stop chortling about it.

On Sunday, I got another dose of laughter. Sport, learning a new piano piece, was playing it much too fast.

"It's a waltz! If people tried to dance to your beat, they'd be doing the jitterbug." I tried to show him how two people might waltz at the correct tempo.

He gave me a look that would have destroyed the tender psyche of a weaker woman.

"Mom, stop. I really don't need to see you dancing."

I left the room so he couldn't see the amusement on my face. He was so scathing in his criticism. And hilarious.

That voodoo that you do

2007-06-06T08:41:00.001-07:00

Ever feel like someone's made a voodoo doll of you and is using it to conjure painful and often inexplicable situations for their sick pleasure? Yesterday, I found a strange object near my desk, some kind of metallic thing with string wrapped around it. If I viewed it from a certain angle, it looked a bit like my figure. Okay, a primitive stick figure, but still. RadCat examined it and agreed it looked ominous, perhaps even Voudoun. Also, I think a patch of my hair is missing.

Why voodoo, you ask?

I've been having vivid dreams and a terrible time getting into a deep sleep.
I stumbled over Sport's shoes and knocked off my little toenail.
Time has slowed down at work. A simple 8-hour day seems to last at least 10-11 hours.
I was working in my garden the other day and a white dove landed right next to me, walked over very boldly and pecked my shoe. It even hopped into my hand. That's just not right.
Everyone is getting on my nerves. Everyone.

You're probably thinking my voodoo curse ought to be a little more dramatic: pet dogs howling in the corner when I walk by, children weeping and channeling hostile spirits, husband coughing up a couple of serpents and then frying them up for our evening meal. It's not gotten to that point yet.

Probably just a matter of time.

Jumping the shark

2007-05-31T11:39:00.000-07:00

Watching one of my new favorite shows last night, I got the feeling that this one, like so many others, has jumped the shark. And it’s only the 3rd season! I’m not sure the rest of the family agrees, but I think the series has reached a point in which the storyline has peaked. Up to this point, it’s been an amazing ride. But now it’s all downhill from here. I hate it when that happens.

I often wonder what it’s like to be a writer on a really good show, getting warm fuzzies from critics, fans and the blogosphere. Is there a moment while everyone is patting themselves on the back that they let down their guard and allow a ridiculously flawed idea to come into play, everyone too giddy with success to see it’s the beginning of the end? Is there one person who tries to talk the group out of it -- Bad choice! Not good! Does not compute! -- but gives up with a shrug and internal rationalization. After all, the checks are still coming in. So Fonzie jumps over a shark with a motorcycle. It could happen in real life. So David and Maddie finally had sex, but who else holds out that long in real life? So Mork & Mindy had a baby – okay, it was an old, overweight, creepy kind of baby, but everyone wants to procreate; it's a biological imperative. So Dr. Greene dies from a brain tumor, but we’re all gonna die eventually. Right? Right?

Thus begins the inevitable march toward cancellation.

Is life like this? Does there come a point when things peak and life as we know it reaches a climax? And if so, do I want to know if I've jumped the shark yet? Do I want to contemplate that it's all a downhill slide from where I'm standing?

Usually, I associate JTS in television shows with an event so bizarre that it's unbelievable. (Once again, I must mention Mork & Mindy's egg-hatched, elderly baby.) If the bizarre is a necessary characteristic, then I should be safe. I've gone through life without marrying my foster son, embezzling the life savings of an old lady, or befriending a serial killer who later on targets me as a victim. These things happen (trust me). On the other hand, I've married my beloved, had a couple of kids, gotten a master's, found a job in my profession. For many, this might be the high point.

Luckily, we all have a way of reinventing ourselves over the years. People change; they switch careers, move to a completely different area, give up on religion, take up a new religion, turn over a new leaf. Life isn't really like a television series, is it? It's more like a series of after-school specials.

And if you're lucky, they're really kind of boring at that.

Too sexy for my cape

2007-05-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

Move over Jake -- I’ve got a new crush! My sister’s got me watching a rather cheesy but quite sexy Lifetime series called Blood ties. In my mountains of spare time, I’ve been watching an episode here and there. The creepy thing is, the actor who plays vampire Henry is only 23 years old, about the age of one of my nephews. Salivating over gorgeous young men while the gray creeps into my hair -- is this what I've got to look forward to as I approach middle age?

There's something about a vampire, though. In my opinion, vampires are the sexiest of the supernatural baddies. Ever heard of paranormal romances? A whole crop of romance writers have seized hold of the vampire genre and turned the walking dead from villains into great but misunderstood guys looking for true and eternal love. Sure beats Nosferatu! Werewolves also crop up now and again as leading me, but I haven't yet run across a drop-dead gorgeous zombie or mummy. I can't imagine how a writer could turn a zombie into a sexy leading man: glazed eyes, cold skin and a penchant for human brains would be a turn off for most ladies.

One of the more interesting takes on vampirism came in a romance novel I skimmed that chalked the phenomena up to a genetic disorded passed down within families. These vampires didn't have any kind of paranormal powers, nor did they live forever, but they had to stay out of the sunlight and needed a fresh supply of blood every now and then. Something to do with their blood's inability to clot.

I wouldn't mind sharing a little of my blood with Henry, but I doubt it would revive him much. He'd probably just want to curl up with a good book, or watch a movie like Shaun of the dead. That is one hilarious zombie movie!

The grass isn't always greener

2007-05-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

After fantasizing about what it might be like to leave the family life behind, I picked up a couple of books that kind of brought me back to reality: Naked on the page: the misadventures of my unmarried midlife, by Jane Ganahl, and, They call me Naughty Lola: personal ads from the London Review of Books, edited by David Rose.

At least I've been spared the late night, alcohol-induced despair of Jane: "You're getting old! You've had your last sex with your last boyfriend! You're fated to die alone, unloved, and your cats will gnaw on your corpse!" After two bad marriages and dating a slew of younger men, Jane pointed out the obvious: not every one is lucky enough to find somebody to love and who loves her back. In her San Francisco Chronicle column, she writes about her attempts to reconcile with the fact that her body is aging while her heart remains a hormonal teenager.

Naughty Lola, on the other hand, featured ads composed by men and women who, I assume, have decided to embrace and underscore their single status, using their writing skills to compete with other lonely hearts in a quest to add a little ruthless truth to advertising.

This ad may not be the best lonely heart in the world, nor its author the best-smelling. That's all I have to say. Man. 37. Box no. 7654.

Love is strange -- wait 'til you see my feet. F. 34, wide-fitting Scholl's. Box no. 5973.

Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.

Blah, blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.

I started off reading these with amusement, enjoying the creativity and humor. But, increasingly, they began to depress me. So, to chase the blues away, I decided to come up with my own ad, in case I ever need to use it. Which I hope is never.

Like rollercoasters? Me too! I'll take you on the emotional rollercoaster ride of your life, with highs and lows that defy description. Prone to uncontrollable weeping in the shower, manic bursts of project planning, and arguments that last for days. F. Box 3808.

Rainstorm fantasies

2007-05-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

"I am just going outside and may be some time."
-- Captain L.E.G. Oates

I came very close to going outside last night, and, instead of heading into a blizzard, making for the center of yet another rainstorm. The mad dash to the last day of school year and relentless rainstorms are driving all of us a little crazy.

On Saturday, I put nearly 80 miles on the car while delivering the boys to youth group meetings, a piano competition, 3 soccer games, and a birthday party. In the middle of all that, I had to go to my sister's baby shower. (Thanks, Saint, for covering the last soccer game for me!) I collapsed into bed at 8:30 and was still dragging the next morning. How I envied the boys their youthful energies.

Last night I spent some time with Sport. He's learning some new piano pieces, and is easily frustrated when he gets new music. He expects to be able to play them in minutes, and doesn't seem to realize that his teacher has been giving him music that is more challenging. No matter how calm I try to be, he tests my patience every time. I know he's got an artistic temperament, but it's all I can do not to smack him on the back of the head when he's mouthing off.

Sometimes I fantasize about getting in my car and just driving away. I know I'll never do it, but it helps break up the routine. At first, I imagine getting a little cabin somewhere in the west (Arizona? Colorado?) where I hunker down and write the Great American Novel. I learn to cook on an outdoor fire and experiment with peyote. I learn the names of all the constellations and end up with a pet wolf named Charley.

Then, inevitably, my imagination starts to work overtime. Soon, I'm being harassed by a psychotic stalker who wants not only my manuscript and Charley's hide, but a couple of my internal organs as well. After spending some time trying to figure out how I'd escape from his torture shack, I'm usually glad to get back to the normalcy of my own hectic life.

Travelling to exotic places in a quest for fame and adventure can exact a very high price, as Captain Oates found out. Still, I wouldn't mind a trip to Las Vegas every once in awhile.

In memory

2007-05-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

How do you eulogize someone you don't know?

SO's cousin tried to kill himself yesterday. He very nearly succeeded; he's more than halfway there, anyway. Hooked up to life support, brain dead, his body waits in the hospital for the family to gather, for the machines to be turned off. He is 27 years old.

I've met him only once, many years ago, when he was a child of 5 or 6. The memory is a fuzzy one, of a tow-headed boy launching himself off some place high (a table top? a stair landing?) and onto my brother-in-law, who gasps and grabs at his neck. The two go down onto the floor, wrestling. Eddie was a tough little kid, harrassed by older twin brothers into learning how to fight dirty and watch his back.

He took a gun and shot himself in the garage of his mother's home.

I don't know any details as to what led him to it. All I keep imagining is his mother rushing through the door, seeing the blood, smelling the gunpowder, unable to process the images in front of her, finding that her son is still breathing, shock hitting her in the stomach like a two by four, the call for an ambulance, the interminable wait, hands pressed to the wound, desperate measures.

The call came this morning, letting family know of the circumstances, asking for prayers. Underneath our eyelashes, we watch our boys as they get ready for school. Fear and sorrow and loss and grief.

Oh God, please...

In the Garden of Eating

2007-04-24T12:06:00.000-07:00

After many months of studying Square foot gardening, I took a day off last week and planted my vegetable garden. The author of this book, Mel Bartholomew, promised me via the subtitle that his methods are a new way of gardening in less space with less work. I'd better get at least a tomato out of the whole thing. I spent 6 hours getting this plot of ground planted, not counting the hours we put in last fall digging up the sod and transplanting daylillies.

Bella pleaded with me to let her help. I let her use her digging skills and she pulled up dead roots with joyful abandon. She was absolutely covered in mud and loved every minute of it.

I could hardly move by the end of the day, and it made me think about a movie I watched recently: Once upon a time when we were colored. It's a story about an African-American sharecropper family in the segregation-era south, and at one point, the narrator talks about the expectations placed on children. "As soon as a child could walk, he was expected to help in the fields." I can't imagine children (especially mine) picking cotton for 12 hours a day, but they did it. I guess any kind of complaint was answered with a slap.

Farm work is so hard. My great-grandfather had a farm in West Texas, and my mother tells magical stories of her visits there, riding along on the tractor, fishing for tarantulas with string and a bit of chewing gum, making mud pies. Grandpa V. grew cotton and, from what I understand, it was a constant struggle to keep everything from burning up in the hot Texas summer. The farm wore him out, and he finally sold it after his wife died. The man I remember was tall, gray, and tired -- always napping in an easy chair.

I'm primarily a flower gardener, and my decision this year to put in vegetables came after years of teasing by my father. "You can't eat a flower," he'd say every spring when he and my mother came over to see the garden in full bloom. No matter how gorgeous it looked, he'd only criticize.

That's my dad.

So this year, I thought I'd see how well I could do. I read about vegetables all winter, and I think I know about as much as I'm going to know. It seems a little complicated, at least according to all the books, with their pH balanced soil, fertilizing requirements, and harvesting schedules. My dad, who helped his mother on their own family farm, assured me there was nothing to it. "Just put the seeds in the ground and they'll grow."

They'd better.

I work here, I carry a badge

2007-04-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

Our library is where security guards go to die.

Well, not literally, but since a terrible robbery attempt in which a friend of mine was injured, we've had need of a security guard to protect us. But, this being a library, we get our gun-wielding heroes from an organization that made the lowest possible bid for our security contract. In a dismal parade of the desperate and incompetent, the characters who have come into the front door (and then quit, were fired, or were reassigned) have included:

Lonely Divorced Guy: He was always on time, his uniform pressed neatly and his shoes buffed. He made his rounds with purpose and stayed at his desk near the library entrance. But he had a way of saying things to women that were a little creepy. He followed female customers around the stacks and asked for their phone numbers. He once told me I had pretty little feet and asked if I was "happily" married. LDG really wanted to date somebody -- anybody -- and enough people complained about him that he was fired to make room for...

Neurotic Crafter Girl: Thin to the point of emaciated, dark circles under her eyes, NCG looked like she was trying to kick a heroin habit when in reality she was only trying to stop smoking. Her nervous energy haunted everything she did, whether patrolling the library grounds, waiting for the UPS guys to unload, or confronting the homeless. In an effort to calm her down a bit, our children's librarian asked NCG to help with a craft program, inadvertantly unleashing a monster. She became so consumed with the crafting bug that around Valentine's Day, she collapsed under the weight of too many hand-crafted puffy hearts, making room for...

Tattooed Biker Guy: Not quite able to afford a Harley, TBG owned a respectable Honda and a series of increasingly violent tattoos. He could barely keep awake due to his late night efforts to score with the ladies, and he developed a crush on one of the women I work with, lingering far too long near her desk when our boss was gone. Hanging out at the circulation desk, boring the circ clerks and scowling at the little kids who lined up to use the computers, he was finally transfered to another location, to make room for...

Personal Space Invader: The latest addition to our security detail, PSI is only months shy of his 80th birthday. Hunched over, hard of hearing, and, I believe, recovering from a stroke, PSI shuffles into our office about 3 or 4 times a day and pauses at each work station, staring intently at objects and the shapes and contours of our desks. I'm very particular about my own personal space, and Friday, when I felt his breath on the back of my neck as he peered over my shoulder to look at my computer screen, I got a little freaked.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Nope. Just bored. I'm a little nosy, like to look around. Gotta keep busy somehow."

He continued to hover just behind me. Trying to find an escape from this invasion, I sent something to the printer and stood up to go get it. I actually bumped into him in my hurry to get away.

I know for a fact that he pulled a similar stunt on my boss, so I'm doubting he'll be back next week. I'm trying to imagine who'll fill his shoes. Personally, I hope it's a trained attack dog. Somehow, I'd feel safer.

Snakes on a plain

2007-04-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

Meet Stephen (named for Stephen Colbert, of course!). In lieu of a visit from the Easter Bunny, Stephen slithered into our neighbor's yard and was rescued from the lawn mower by the boys. Of course, they wanted to keep him as a pet, but knowing SO's healthy fear of snakes, I knew that wasn't going to happen. They put Stephen in a plastic container full of leaves and grass and we debated about where be should be relocated. There's a lovely rolling plain on the north side of the lake, and we took him there. He's was pretty nervous about the whole thing, and I left a pile of brush for him to crawl into if he got cold. I hope he didn't freeze to death, because the next day, the cold front hit.

Poor Stephen. But at least he kept his head. Whenever my dad saw a snake, he'd always get the shovel and chop it to pieces. He once came across a baby rattler and the poor thing didn't have a chance. Always a practical jokester, my mom didn't believe him at first, until he showed her the mangled body. I've got to give it to my mom. She used the experience to get back at my dad in a big way. Not long after the snake chopping experience, she rushed into the house, screaming and holding onto one leg.

"I've been bit by a rattler!"

"Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!" Dad was thrown. He didn't know what to do, and resorted to hopping up and down in a panic. She couldn't keep up the charade, and laughed her head off at his reaction. It sounds mean, I know, but he got her so many times with his practical jokes, she was glad to come up with a whopper to pay him back.

5 things I learned at OLA

2007-04-05T06:13:00.000-07:00

Spent the last 2 days at the Oklahoma Library Association (OLA) conference, an annual event where librarians from different types of libraries and specialities get together for an exchange of information and a little schmoozing. I usually dread going to this thing. At first, it was because I didn't know anyone. Now, I know too many, but I still hate the uncertainty that comes with the perils of parking, trying to locate unfamiliar hotels, and managing to avoid some colleagues while maneuvering to meet up with others.

I've been taught to make lemons out of lemonades, channeling my dread into an educational opportunity. So here's 5 things I learned at OLA this year:

1. Librarians should never, ever, ever wear their hair in a bun. Ever. Even if attempting self-mockery.

2. A casual hug from a handsome young man wearing just the right amount of cologne can result in an embarrassing crush. The young man in question was a toddler when I was in college. He's bright, articulate, and clean. I'm not sure what cologne he was wearing, but it was intoxicating. After the hug, I kept breathing in a hint of the cologne that lingered on my jacket. Was it laced with pheromones? I couldn't stop thinking about his beautiful eyes. It took awhile for the scent to fade, leaving behind the faded rose of my own youth.

3. Connecticut librarians kick ass!

4. There's not enough alcohol in the city to turn a ragtag group of information professionals into a rock band. But our foam core guitars looked, like, totally awesome!

5. The group of kids born after Generation X prefer to be called Millenials rather than Generation Y or Echo Boomers.

There's also nothing more satisfying than sneaking away to have lunch with a dear friend. That makes the whole hassle worthwhile.

Misty birthday-colored memories

2007-03-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow's my birthday. I had a couple of work pals surprise me and take me out for a birthday lunch, and that was nice. It got me thinking about some of the best birthday memories I have:

One, of course, was being born, but I'm a little hazy on that. I know there was a bright light and lots of noise, and I got smacked around a little bit, but it ended well. I got a pink blanket out of it.
There were plenty of parties with annoying kids who pinched me, busted the pinata before I got a turn, and made fun of my lop-sided, microwaved chocolate cakes. That wasn't so great.
I got a Sweet 16 party, and my parents invited the boy I'd had a huge crush on for three years -- to his credit, he was nice enough to attend, but I'm sure inside he was cringing.
When we lived in Washington, our circle of friends threw some great and creative parties for birthdays. One involved a hair-ball puppet; another centered around a handwritten story featuring Star Trek characters and an Organic Life Form (OLF). Those were the salad days.

Saw my favorite sister yesterday. She and her husband were on their way back to Colorado. They stopped in to say hello and wish me a happy birthday. "The older you get, the less of a big deal it is," she said, handing me a card my parents had asked her to deliver. (They live in town, and refuse to mail anything to me -- why waste a perfectly good stamp? If my sis hadn't brought the card over, I'd have had to pick it up myself.)

I agree with her on some level. I don't want expensive gifts. I don't even want cards, but I get a secret pleasure out of ecards, emails, and phone calls. I like it when people do stuff like that. It makes me feel a little special. It's nice.

One of the best gifts I ever got came out of the blue a couple of years ago. One of my co-workers had recently retired. She called me on her cell phone from the beach and let me listen to the breaking waves, knowing how much I loved the ocean. I will never forget that. One of these days, maybe I'll spend my birthday at a real ocean. Or, if global warming really kicks in, my little Oklahoma house might be situated on beachfront property.

Awesome!

Bald is beautiful

2007-03-26T12:56:00.000-07:00

This is going to be one of those annoying “I am so proud of my kid” postings, so if you can’t handle that kind of stuff, don’t read on.

I can't help it, though, I really am proud of LegoGuy. Two years ago he started growing out his hair to shave on St. Baldrick’s Day, and he did the deed yesterday, along with about 70 other folks. He really would’ve had a lot more to take off, but during Christmas we made him get a trim and the stylist cut about 4 inches. (I was certain I told her to leave the length but add lots of layers; apparently, she didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me.)

Last year, Lego’s friend Fletcher died from Ewings Sarcoma. When it was time to sign up for St. Baldrick’s, he didn’t hesitate. He raised about $2000 for childhood cancer research.

I’ve been thinking about him all day, wondering how his friends at school reacted. He figured it might be a little rough but by Wednesday, everyone would be used to his new look. I think he’s got a beautifully-shaped head!

Chain chain chain

2007-03-22T13:09:00.000-07:00

Sport left his glasses on the back of my car last night. He tried to convince himself that he’d left them somewhere else: in the garage, on the swing out front, on his headboard, but of course, they were nowhere to be found. I imagine they were lying in the middle of the interstate most of the morning, finally pulverized into dust by passing 18-wheelers.

I was proud of the way SO handled the information. Sport told us about the missing glasses in the middle of a visit from his aunt, and SO was able to keep his composure. He’s able to deal with the stupid kid stuff better than I am — I’m notoriously short on patience when it comes to this.

We took the boys to the art museum on Tuesday to see a Napoleon exhibit, and while it kept LegoGuy mildy entertained, Sport was bored. It was a video on chain reaction that really caught their attention. It was 30 minutes long, but it was almost impossible to get up and leave once we sat down to watch it. I think Sport was expecting a grand finale – fireworks, girls dancing the Can Can, or, at the very least, a perfectly brewed pot of hot tea – but it didn’t work that way. It was an exercise in math, chemistry, and planning. Lots and lots of planning.

I wish I could say the boys learned something from that video, like if you send a tire down an inclined plane, and it knocks a burning candle into a puddle of gasoline, the subsequent explosion could cause a concussion that would send several tubes of empty tape rolls into the air, and on and on, causing a chain reaction that ultimately might result in the death of an entire civilization of people. (I don't know, we really didn't get to the end of it -- maybe the candle fizzled out at the end or a brigade of volunteer firemen rushed into the warehouse and shut the whole thing down.)

I really hoped it might give them pause before doing something that, in the end, would bring about bodily harm or at least the loss of a pair of expensive glasses. Didn’t happen.

Sport put the glasses on the back of my car as the sun was going down and left them there all night. The next morning, I backed out of the garage, and, as the sun had not yet come up, didn’t notice they were there. I took off for the highway, humming along with whatever was on the radio, racing through lights that were about to turn yellow, completely oblivious.

Kids don't think about what happens next. They live in the moment. I like this about kids -- but it can also be kinda painful. I know this, having experienced it myself at the ripe old age of six. My father, burning leaves as he often did during the fall, left one pile unattended. My sister, younger by a year, took a stick and put the tip of it into the flames, getting it nice and hot. Then, she branded me on the back. Later (after her spanking), she was remorseful and sad. She hadn't meant to hurt me, she just wanted to see me jump.

Another incident with fire, this time my niece. Seeing a lit candle in the bathroom, she wondered what it would look like if she threw a wadded up handful of toilet paper into it. She didn't realize it would startle her, making her sweep the blazing item into the trashcan, causing an even bigger conflagration. She was perfectly willing to confess, but only after she'd spent about 5 minutes trying to come up with the right way to tell her uncle that the bathroom was on fire.

Then there was the time I warned LegoGuy not to mess with a giant pile of rocks, just before he slipped and took off the entire top layer of shin skin.

Sport's got a backup pair of glasses, one with a missing nose piece. We'll get that fixed, and he'll be back in business.

I wish monocles were popular. I think he'd look great sporting one of those. And they're cheaper to replace.

Hand over the napkins and nobody gets hurt

2007-03-19T10:21:00.000-07:00

Only moments after bolting down a grilled cheese sandwich at Sonic, I found myself racing to the computer to begin a tirade against a growing trend. It's becoming more and more prevalent in the fast food industry: the mysterious disappearance of condiments.

Used to be, you'd pull into the drive-through to get a low-dollar lunch and be subjected to minimal customer service, a barely palatable burger, and a watered down drink. But in that grease-stained bag there would reside a handful of ketchup packets, some flimsy napkins, and, if you were lucky, a random sampling of salt and pepper.

Not today.

Is it a cost-cutting strategy? Conservation? Laziness? A vast, right-wing conspiracy? Is it so difficult to toss a couple blobs of ketchup and a few measly napkins at a customer? On top of making sure our order is correct (and the soft drink is indeed a Dr. Pepper, not a crappy Diet Coke), do we have to beg for condiments as well?

This makes me cranky. Very, very cranky.

So I'm sitting in the car, munching on an onion ring, when I notice I haven't been given a single napkin to wipe the crumbs from my face. On the floor (crushed and looking the worse for wear) is a used napkin. With care, I pick the thing up and observe it. A couple of the corners appear to be useable. At least I don't have to resort to some cruddy old snot rags I'm sure are lodged under the seat somewhere. As for the missing ketchup, I happened to have a few on hand from my last Sonic run, where I specifically requested extras when ordering.

I have many, many pet peeves, but as of today, condiment conservation is at the top of my list.

The spice of life

2007-03-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

Love is in the air. It’s possible I might be getting a new grandpa for Easter. My grandmother’s got her eye on a wheel-chair bound resident down the hall. In fact, she’s got more than an eye on him. Apparently, she groped the gentleman during a sing-along of favorite church hymns.

Nearer my God to thee, indeed.

Sexual harassment or senior moment? Both families pledged to keep the elderly Juliet away from the aged Romeo, but I didn’t have the courage to ask her about it Sunday when I picked her up for lunch. The image of my granny playing fast and loose with forbidden fruit was too much for me. Always elegant, proper, and reticent, it was impossible to imagine her doing such a thing. She probably wouldn’t even remember doing it, to be honest.

Grandma wanted to go out for a hamburger, but her favorite place had closed down. We ended up at a Mexican food restaurant, eating fajitas and soft tacos. She put away an entire bowl of salsa and queso, smacking her lips with satisfaction. “I love that spicy food!”

That's one thing we've got in common.

Spring is also in the air, and I spent Saturday afternoon in the yard, preparing my flower beds, pulling weeds, and watering. “You wasted all that water,” Sport said when he saw it was raining the next morning. True enough. I was also sore from all that squatting. I still need to spend many more hours out there, but I’m not sure how I’ll fit it in – Sport’s got soccer games and piano contests every Saturday until the end of May, and LegoGuy has his church youth activities and orchestra competitions. I’m getting too old for this. I’d love to hire someone to help me – preferably a young latino man who looks a lot like Antonio Banderas.

With Grandma as my role model, I think I'm going to refuse to let the aging process kill my spirit. I’ll refuse to wear a hat in the sun, embrace my gray hair, and look at each wrinkle as a badge of honor. I’ll squat in the mud, eat spicy foods, and occasionally grope my gardening assistant.

"Mmmm, spicy!"

Book fever

2007-03-08T10:23:00.000-08:00

Recently, I got to do one of my favorite things: recommend a favorite book to a friend. As luck would have it, Gypsy found the author to be just as hilarious as I'd promised. We went back and forth, sharing our favorite parts and lines. I couldn't stop laughing. Afterwards, I emailed SO and had him order me a hardbound copy of Naked by David Sedaris. I decided it had to be in my collection.

I don't buy books very often. As a librarian, I prefer to participate in the public sharing of reading materials. I enjoy being part of the process and I enjoy being an end user. If I can get it at the library, I don't like to spend money on books (except for leather-bound classics -- I love the weight and feel of a gorgeous Easton Press edition); I hate clutter and most paperbacks. When I come across something that I really, really love, then I'll buy it in hardback. This doesn't happen very often, so I think David should be flattered that his book qualified, not that I'll ever hear from him. He lives in France, you know.

Anyway, back to Naked. I checked the book out after cataloging it because it looked like a good read. Tucked into bed one night, my beloved beside me, I opened to the first chapter and started chuckling. I tried to keep my mirth to a minimum. After all, we have a waterbed and a couple of hearty guffaws is enough to start a ripple effect. Soon enough, I couldn't control myself. I had to read some of the paragraphs aloud.

Normally, this drives SO insane. Heck, it drives me crazy when he reads something out loud to me, because, you know, most of the time what I find to be funny isn't so funny when read out loud and out of context by someone else. But he started laughing, too. It was great. He ended up checking the book out later and thoroughly enjoying it.

Last week, DoOL mentioned a book that had grabbed him and it turned out to be another one that SO and I fought over when I brought it home from the library, Into the wild, by Jon Krakauer. It's not the slightest bit funny but it was gripping, plunging us into a bookreading fever from which there was no escape until the tragic last page was devoured.

After reading FE's latest posting, I decided to weigh in on a couple of books that have gobsmacked me. Anyone else have something to add?

Al Gore, superstar

2007-03-02T11:15:00.000-08:00

I have had a brush with greatness.

Last night, LegoGuy and I went to see Al Gore give his now-famous presentation on global warming. Originally scheduled for a smaller venue on the OU campus, it was moved to the enormous Lloyd Noble auditorium at the last minute. Thus, we found ourselves in line with about 7,000 other people, waiting for permission to go inside and grab a good seat.

The line snaked around the building and through the parking lot like a gigantic anaconda. We'd parked near the back of the line and walked over to join our compatriots, giddy with excitement.

"Look at all these Democrats," Lego said.

"This issue appeals to people in both parties. I'm sure they aren't all Democrats," I told him. We stopped to admire a bumper sticker: Frodo failed. Bush has the ring.

The line doubled back behind us toward the front. It looked like it was going to take a very long time to get in, especially if every bag was being searched. However, anarchy was just around the corner. When the doors opened, those in the back of the line (who were really closer in proximity to the front of the line) saw their opportunity and broke rank. The remaining line hesitated for a moment. Should we continue in a civilized fashion? But less than 3 seconds after the end bolted, the entire line dissolved and there was a mad dash for the entrance: a complete breakdown in society. I've never seen anything like it. No elderly ladies were crushed, but there was a mix of dismay and laughter. Cell phones were snapped open; friends were called. "You are not going to believe what just happened..."

With security guards giving only a cursory glance at purses, we were able to get in really quickly. Found some great seats, with a clear view of the podium. They had big screens up so people could see on three sides of the vast arena. I'm telling you, the place was 3/4 of the way full. I sat next to a journalism student and we struck up a conversation, with me giving her some ideas about what to include in her story (but not in a pushy way).

Time went by fairly quickly. We were trying to figure out where Al would enter from -- most likely the bottom right, was my hypothesis. I went up to get some water and it was at that moment that Al Gore burst from the wings at the top of the stadium. I was standing right there! He was sweating already, since it was really warm in Lloyd Noble. One of his secret service men was dabbing at the VP's temple with a handkerchief. I reacted quickly, taking off my lightweight red cotton jacket and tossing it to Al. He shot me a grateful smile, mopped his brow, and threw it back at me. So, I didn't get an autograph, but I did get a little vice-presidential perspiration as a souvenir.

The crowd erupted in applause and standing ovations. We just cheered and cheered. He said he was overwhelmed by such a reception. Who knew he and David Boren were such good friends? Basically, the thing was a rehash of his slide show, which I've already seen twice, but he'd added some newer, even more depressing slides. Famished and blue from the continuing bad news on the global warming front, yet elated by the experience, we snuck out early and went to get something to eat. Proudly, I showed off the sweaty jacket*, but the waiter didn't seem at all impressed.

I'm starting to agree with JrCat, who really thinks Al needs to run for president. He's got a huge fan base.

*Okay, I admit to a tiny bit of embellishment here, but in 7th grade, my sister and I were the lucky recipients of a brush that had been pulled through the sweaty locks of an Elvis impersonator.

Birthday flight

2007-02-20T08:32:00.001-08:00

This was not the way the day was supposed to end, with LegoGuy’s head on the table, crying silently into the crook of his elbow. I had rushed to the store after yoga class to pick up a cake mix, and after dinner I’d whipped up a chocolate cake with homemade Hershey’s chocolate icing. Somehow, I’d ended up hurting the feelings of my 14-year-old son.

“I just poked him with a clothespin,” I said to SO, slightly stunned.

“You pinched him.”

“I pinned it on the seam of his shirt.”

“Obviously you caught skin, not shirt.”

“Oh, come on,” I said lightly, poking Lego with the clothespin one more time, thinking he was joking around with us. But he really was upset. Truth is, we were all on each other’s nerves last night and it didn’t take much to send one of us over the edge. Unfortunately, it ended up being the birthday boy.

Trying to make amends, I reached back into my memory for a miserable birthday story. "When I turned 8, I was chased up the top of a swing set because all the kids were pinching me so much. I was covered in bruises from head to toe."

Unimpressed, there was no response from LegoGuy.

Well, at least he enjoyed his birthday present. His obessession with the sky is still in full swing, and we arranged for him to take a Discovery Flight. He, along with a certified instructor (CI), flew a Cessna around the area for about an hour. I left him in CI's capable hands, and headed for my van. I wasn't able to leave, camping out in my van until I saw the two of them take off safely. I was aware that SO was at work, worrying a hole into the lining of his stomach, so I had to make sure there weren't any snags. What I didn't realize was my son was the one in the pilot seat. CI was sitting behind him, co-piloting. LegoGuy was the one in charge when they left the runway. His euphoria was evident when I picked him up at the end of the lesson.

"I told him I'd had some experience with a flight simulator, but it's nothing like the real thing!" LegoGuy told me. "He said I did pretty good on the take-off. Landing was a lot more difficult." Thankfully, CI had brought the plane down without incident.

"How come I never get an airplane ride for my birthday?" asked Sport, jealous.

"Hey, you got a football signed by the entire OU team! You've never even expressed an interest in flying."

LegoGuy laughed, his smile lighting up his entire face.

Each year, I find it more and more difficult to believe that this is the same kid we brought home from the hospital in 1993, both of us feeling shellshocked by our sudden change in status from couple to threesome. Kids really don't come with any kind of instruction manual. We did a lot of things wrong those first few months, but I think we've done a whole lot of things right over the years.

I'd taken LegoGuy's baby book out so we could look at it together, but after the pinching debacle, I went from Mother of the Year to Mommy Dearest. He went to his room and I went to bed, depressed and embarrassed.

This morning, I apologized and he forgave me. There's nothing like a hug from Mom and a big piece of cake lathered with homemade Hershey's chocolate icing to make everything right with the world.

Ha ha ha!

2007-02-19T07:11:00.000-08:00

Most hilarious Valentine's Day gift I've ever received: a box of moist towelettes from Gypsy and CraftyMinx. Thanks for the laugh, guys!

Anti-Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T11:24:00.001-08:00

“So, do you celebrate Valentine's Day, or do you see it as a soulless corporate holiday?” DoOL asked me yesterday.

What a loaded question! If I don’t celebrate it, do I come across as being anti-romantic and completely unappreciative of my beloved? If I admit that I do celebrate it, do I end up looking boastful and slightly needy? “Look at me, I got flowers. Because I’m worth it … right? Right?!”

It’s hard to get past the pain of Valentine’s Day etched into my fragile psyche during elementary school. These days, Sport and his classmates are sent home with notes instructing parents that, should our child choose to participate, all children must be given a valentine, with further instructions prohibiting personal messages. “Your child should sign his/her name only! Do not address them, leave the ‘To’ field blank.”

In my day, you could pick and choose who’d get a valentine, signed, sealed and delivered in its tiny white envelope. We could buy special, lace-covered masterpieces to give to the one we loved the best. How I dreaded looking through my artfully decorated shoebox for a special valentine that never came. All of us would count up how many we got, eagerly shouting out the number: “I got 11!” “I got 15!” “I got 20!” I was never the recipient of the most love tokens; popular girls like Sarah or Norma always claimed that honor.

Most teenage girls fill their angst-ridden hours of adolescence by reading romance novels, an exercise I am convinced seriously warped me. Those things completely deceived me as to what a real relationship with a man might be like. I’ve rarely met any male who acted like the main characters in these ridiculous stories, maddened by love to the point of entering into a marriage of convenience. And those long passages of annoying dialogue! Most men I know would rather swallow their tongues before uttering nonsense such as:

"I can promise to hurt you, to infuriate you, to be unreasonable and impatient, but no one will love you more. No one."

Or:

"I need to see the shape of your face though my hands. It's not enough to see it with my eyes. Do you understand?"

And this:

"I don't need your dowry, your parents, your Grecian temple, your pond, your abbey -- I don't need anything. All I want, all I need, is you."

A long time ago, SO and I decided not to take part in the much-hyped Valentine's Day. He got uncomfortable over my unstated expectations and I got uncomfortable with the competitive nature of it all, especially at work. When my boss got her yearly bouquet, she'd make such a big to do about it that the rest of us ended up feeling like we didn't measure up. I felt as if I'd regressed back to that 4th grade girl I'd been, shaking my shoebox to see if I'd gotten anymore valentines.

Instead, we make each other little cards and focus more attention on celebrating our anniversary, a date that's uniquely ours. I'd be lying if said I'd turn down a vase full of red roses. I'm a romantic at heart, God help me. But the one romantic boyfriend I had in college kind of got on my nerves. He was a sweetheart of a guy and always showed up for dates with flowers or candy or a card. But he was too nice of a guy. I wanted a guy with a bad boy edge, one not so desperate to please.

So, yes, Valentine's Day is all about the money. I take pleasure in sticking it to The Man and refusing to sell-out. As this guy/girl says, it's an overrated, capitalistic invention, and what you spend today is in no way a reflection of your true feelings for your beloved.

Plus, if you wait until tomorrow, you can get that heart-shaped box of Russell Stover's chocolated for half price. Nothing says "I love you" better than two for the price of one!

Weird like me

2007-02-09T11:13:00.000-08:00

"Aaah, so you're Lego. I've heard a lot about you," said the father of one of my oldest son's classmates. We were standing in line to meet the 7th grade teachers at the middle school Open House, now optimistically called a "Showcase" in order to lull parents into thinking it's some kind of spectacular entertainment. Instead, it was the same old adolescent fare of self-conscious drama skits, song sung without clearly enunciated words, bands playing slightly off-key, and orchestras squeaking their strings.

LegoGuy's friend giggled, hiding her braces with a raised hand. My son just grinned. Lord knows what kind of things this girl had said to her family. I just hoped my kid wasn't cornering her in the hallway and popping her in the back with the clasp of her bra strap. That was one way the boys entertained themselves when I was a teen.

It was interesting to watch him interact with his peers. He seemed confident, at ease with everyone around him. They noticed him, gave him a "'Whassup?" or a slap on the back or murmured his name in passing. He looked normal, like he fit in, like he didn't have a weird gene in his body.

Maybe he gets all his weird quirks out at home. Some of the things he does lately just set my teeth on edge. His latest oddity is crawling into unexpected places and staying there, motionless, until one of us comes upon him unaware. Then he scares the bejeezus out of us. He doesn't say a word, doesn't jump out or scream. It's just that he's somewhere he shouldn't be, as still as a statue, and it's freaky.

It's no secret I had my weird moments growing up. I'm sure my parents noticed me doing all kinds of strange things, but here's what comes to mind:

1. The bizarre laugh: In 6th grade, I decided my laugh was completely unremarkable. Therefore, I had to come up with a new laugh. I experimented for awhile, then settled on a bizarre laugh that seemed to go on forever. In order to stretch it out, I'd inhale as deeply as I could, then exhale and laugh at the same time. It was exhausting, and eventually I gave it up. I'm sure my parents were thrilled.

2. The rapid clap: It was around this time that I experienced a huge surge of energy, and the only way I could get rid of it was by clapping rapidly for at least 3-5 minutes at a time, until my hands were stinging and sore. I remember my Dad glaring at me, patience completely gone. "Take it outside!" Still clapping, I obeyed.

3. The face stretch: We were a church-goin' family, parked on the hard pews every Sunday, Sunday night, Wednesday night missionary meetings, revivals, Bible studies, etc. I'd grasp at every straw to get me through the service. I probably studied the photos in my mother's wallet a hundred thousand times. (Had my parents really been that young? Who knew?) Then I discovered the odd pleasure of stretching my face. Bowing my head as if to pray, I'd used the palms of my hands to stretch my cheeks as far as I could stand before it got too painful. Then, release and recover. Repeat as often as necessary until the final sinner had prayed through at the altar. It's a wonder my jowls don't brush the concrete when I walk.

I'm sure there were many more. And it didn't end with adolescence. I've currently got enough weird ways to drive my husband crazy, what with my subhuman light sleep habits, my aversion to squeaky markers and my insistence on conversing in baby talk with my dog. Today, Gypsy and Minx made fun of my love for the phrase Moist Towelette* which would be -- I still believe -- a great name for a girl band.

I'm weird, and I'm proud.

*Hey, at least I'm not weird enough to collect these things.

"Do you believe you can win?" Duh!

2007-02-05T11:57:00.000-08:00

Most hilarious thing overheard at Sunday’s Super Bowl party:

M: Do you believe that? Hey guys, did you see that?

SO (conversing with Son of Tex): See what?

DoOL: (Head down, concentrating on a Scrabble move, says nothing.)

AQ: Mmmm, sorry, wasn't paying attention.

C.F. Kats and her mother shrug. Both are doing schoolwork.

M: Unbelievable! This is a Superbowl party and nobody saw the play?

Sport: I saw it. He was in.

Hate to say it, but I was more mesmerized by the commercials and Prince’s half-time performance than by the actual game. Despite all of Saint’s efforts, I can’t find much in football that really appeals to me. If you’re gonna have athletes out on the field, at least take off some of the padding. (This is why I like soccer. At least I can see the muscular calves and thighs; I don’t have to imagine what they look like.) The best thing about this much-hyped event is the opportunity to get together with a bunch of friends, catch up, and eat a bunch of delicious but nutritionally-deficient junk food.

If you still haven’t yet had your fill of the Super Bowl, check out Sports Illustrated’s Dumbest Super Bowl Questions. My personal favorite is #15, followed closely by #13.

If Mama ain't happy... beware the veto!

2007-02-02T09:33:00.000-08:00

"Mom, has President Bush vetoed anything?" Sport asked me on the way home from piano lessons.

"Uhhh, I think he vetoed some stem cell legislation," I said, a little stunned by the switch in conversation from playground antics to politics. "Why do you ask?"

"We're learning about presidents." And, I assumed, the power of the presidential veto. He went on to entertain me with trivia about Taft, Adams, and FDR.

LegoGuy and Sport get a hefty amount of political exposure due to the conversations their father and I have during dinner each night. We try to come up with one thing to share with the family, and I usually throw something out I heard on NPR during my drive home, which sparks a discussion with SO while the boys play with their food and throw napkins at each other. Over the years, they've learned enough to add a little something to the conversation. Sport, who knows how I feel about one possible Democratic presidential hopeful, saw the cover of a book I'd been reading. His eyes widened.

"Mom, it's Barack Obama! This is the answer to all your hopes and dreams."

Okay, all idols have feet of clay, but, as I told JrCat at work last week, let me cling to this thimbleful of hope. It's all I have to get me through the last 2 years of the Bush Nightmare (2000-2008).

Speaking of nightmares, last night I made another attempt to teach Scrabble to the boys. I have no memory of my own parents teaching me to play. Perhaps I sprung from my mother's body clutching a dictionary in one hand and a Scrabble rack in the other. Regardless, no matter how hard I try, I can't remember any lessons. It's as if I've always known how to play. Trying to teach the art of Scrabble strategy, however, doesn't come naturally to me at all. My level of patience, much lower at the end of the day then at the beginning, was getting very, very low.

After LegoGuy drew 5 E's from the bag, he was ready to throw in the towel.

"I give up! This is a sucky hand!"

"You can't give up in the middle of a game just because you don't like your letters. That's rude. You can pass and get a new hand if you want."

"A-N-N-E." Sport laid down his letters.

"You can't use proper names, remember? I've told you this before."

"BEANYZOO."

"LegoGuy, that's not even a word. You can't put a Y at the end of BEAN; it runs into ZOO. We've gone over this a hundred times."

He giggles.

"Trade you a D for a U," Sport whispers to his brother, and tiles slide across the table in a careful exchange.

"Doesn't work that way."

"I've got nothing." LegoGuy tilts his letters toward me. DEEFERA.

"Move the letters around until you see something."

"I did. There's nothing."

Quickly, I switch the D for the F.

"It's right there. FEEDER. See it? You've got to keep moving the tiles around until you see something. Or try to play off the end or the beginning of a word that's already in play."

By this time, I know I'm about to lose it, especially when Sport throws a fit when he can't find anyplace to go.

"That's it! Game over." In moments, the game is back in the box. The boys open their mouths to protest, but know by the expression on my face that resistance is futile.

A presidential veto doesn't hold a candle to the power of a maternal one.

Be careful what you wish for

2007-01-27T17:43:00.000-08:00

After moaning about the dullness of a routine life, we took a little walk on the wild side last week. We had us a plumbing problem. A big one. Snaking the pipes wasn't going to do it this time. Instead, it was jackhammer time.

"Looks like they might have to take up part of the kitchen floor," SO told me after the first plumber visited on Monday.

"They are not tearing up my ceramic tile!"

"Or they might have to go through the library floor."

"Not the wood floors! I'll lug the clothes to a laundramat for the rest of my life before I let that happen."

"Be reasonable," said SO. "We can't use the dishwasher or the kitchen sink. There's a hole in the pipe. It's all got to be replaced."

Shuddering, we put our heads together and called in the big guns. Time to network through family.

I know I've spent a lot of time whining about the dysfunctional vein that runs through our clans, but when the chips are down, nobody pulls together faster than us hillbillies. It's one thing for me to make fun of my own, but then again, I've earned that right. Regardless of past issues, I started making some calls and found a plumber related to my sister's second husband. We didn't want any kind of discount, SO reassured him. We just wanted someone we could trust.

"Hell, you're family," he said, and by Thursday his crew was on the scene, tearing up the back patio and ripping the dishwasher out of its cozy nook. When I got home from work that evening, I surveyed the damage in shock. There was a 4-foot deep hole and an enormous pile of dirt,, clay and concrete just outside the back door. Mud tracks traced the path of the plumber. The dishwasher was jammed in the corner, looking rather like the assassinated corpse of Julius Caesar abandoned by his murderous senators (okay, that's a stretch, but we're still watching Rome, and that's the first comparison that came to mind). Another deep hole was excavated from beneath the floor where the dishwasher had been, tunneling under the sink and to the outside. From there, chaos spread through the entire house. Everything was out of order. SO was in a panic, the boys were down to a couple pairs of boxers and stained vacation t-shirts, Bella looked like she was only a bark away from a nervous breakdown. It was time for me to take charge.

At least, it was time for me to think I could take charge. I took a vacation day and started putting the house back in order, working from the room furthest from the problem. I am always soothed my cleaning; it's not something I particularly look forward to doing, but when I'm in the middle of it, I tend to fall into a Zen-like meditation. By lunch time, I'd gotten things the way I wanted and the plumbers were breaking for lunch.

"Should be able to run all that laundry by 3 o'clock or so," said Mike, former motorcycle racer and all-around nice guy. He had a tendency to groan loudly when bending or maneuvering heavy pipe into place, which really freaked me out at first.

"Motorcycle accident," SO whispered when I voiced my concern. "Major nerve damage. Took a year to recover."

"Good God!" Surely plumbing wasn't the most comfortable job for Mike to be doing. But, other than the loud groaning, he had no complaints.

Since I'd tidied up all I could, I had a little time to watch a documentary that had been languishing near the TV for a couple of weeks. I even walked up with LegoGuy to get Sport from school. It was a beautiful day and we took Bella. In the midst of all the chaos, I found myself having a pretty good time.

The pipe was replaced, The plumbers cleaned everything up as well as they could, and promised to be back on Monday to reinstall the dishwasher and put the shelves under the sink back together. I spent all day Saturday doing laundry, and things are pretty much back to normal. I even got to go to a poetry reading to hear one of my friends read her work.

After this crazy week, I'm looking forward to routine.

DVR Wars

2007-01-21T17:04:00.000-08:00

Sunday evening in the AQ household

In the heat of battle, SO clutches the DVR remote, frantically trying to cancel a recording in order to tape another episode of Rome. "What do you mean, we can't tape two shows and watch another one at the same time?" His voice rises in frustration and LegoGuy curls into a fetal position on the couch, rocking back and forth.

The DVR Wars continue. Ever since we got digital cable video, the boys and their father have been engaged in a battle to see who can record the most TV shows. At first, SO was in the lead, but LegoGuy was a close second, programming the box to catch each and every television documentary featuring a WWII aircraft. Sport, not to be outdone, feverishly studied the TV Guide channel, plugging in the NFL games and late night EPL classics. As for me, all I asked for was The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, 30 Rock, and SNL. Soon, the amount of space available on the DVR hovered near 18%. What to do about this dilemma?

"Dad, you're going to have to cancel out that Patriots game," LegoGuy volunteers, removing his thumb from his mouth in an attempt to solve the problem.

"This is bloody ridiculous!" SO thunders, marching off to inform Sport (who is showering) that he won't be able to watch the game later. He tries to use his calm voice, but Sport nearly jumps out of his skin anyway. He is promised a chance to watch the EPL review show before bed, and things start to settle down.

"I just lost four pounds from all the stress," LegoGuy says when the crisis was over.

Through it all, I huddled at the computer keyboard, finally inspired to start another blog entry. I've been stuck for awhile, trying to come up with something that might be mildly amusing. For the most part, life at the AQ household is pretty routine: kids get up, kids get dressed, I go to work, they go to school, SO pays the bills and keeps the pantry stocked, kids get home, I get home ... yada yada yada ... showers, bedtime. I think I will go mad with all the repetition. All the child rearing books I've read talk about how kids need structure. It makes them feel safe. Still, one week bleeds into another in a mind-numbing parade of sameness.

The ice storm broke us out of our routine, but there's only so much one can write about the weather. I thought we might be covered with a foot of snow this weekend. Thankfully, the weathermen were wrong, and we had rain instead. So when I heard the uproar over DVR issues, I perked up and started grinning.

I know we aren't the only family who struggle with DVR programming addiction. My friend, The Collatress, got so excited when hers was installed that she immediately programmed 100 hours of TV taping during the first week alone. This became a problem when her husband wanted access. Negotiations ensued, and some shows were carefully deleted. I have a feeling they are still dealing with space availability.

I haven't been able to watch all the Daily Shows/Colbert Reports I taped last week. SO keeps eyeballing them, hoping to zap them out of the queue and free up some more space. I planned to watch them while we were snowed in on Saturday, but, as I said, we got rain instead. I also got distracted by cobwebs and ended up spending my weekend cleaning the kitchen from floor to ceiling. So, my shows wait in limbo to be viewed.

Unless they've been deleted.

Wind chilly

2007-01-14T11:21:00.000-08:00

SO just called from the airport to let me know he might have to pull an all-nighter. Although every flight has been cancelled, they still need bodies to man the rental car counters. Some employees haven't been able to traverse the icy roadways, so my hubby may be the lucky recipient of overtime.

Meanwhile, I sit at home listening to my sons compete in a belching contest.

Local weathermen worked themselves into a fever pitch on Thursday, warning all of us to gird up our loins in preparation for the coming storm. At work, JuniorCat made fun of the histrionics: "For the love of God, people, are you listening to me? Did you top off your gas tank? Do you have enough supplies? Extra candles? Blankets? A chainsaw? Generator? Have you scoped out your chubbiest neighbor? By all means, invite him over to wait out the storm. When this thing hits, those few extra pounds could mean the difference between life and death for you and your family!"

I've been through worse storms. So far the ice has been limited to sleet. There's been no wanton destruction of trees and powerlines. The streets are icy, but the boys and I ventured out yesterday to buy some milk and eat lunch. We didn't even slide until they begged me to throw on the brakes as we pulled onto our street.

I don't want anyone to get hurt, but I confess I enjoy it when nature flexes her muscles on occasion. One of the coolest things I've ever experienced in Oklahoma was when a freak wind shear, or gustnado, hit the city and tore down a pitiful amount of trees. When it hit, the wind was so loud that I ran in and got LegoGuy out of his toddler bed.

"Sounded like a freight train!"

We sat in a rocking chair in the middle of the house, as far away from windows as possible. It was frightening and incredibly cool at the same time. Our entire neighborhood was shut down by fallen trees. The city collected all the branches and piled them in a nearby park. There were so many, they resorted to burning them rather than grinding them up into mulch.

We also had a brutal icestorm when Sport was tiny. It tore down powerlines and plunged our house into darkness. If you've never experienced it, there's a moment just before branches are shorn from the trunk of a tree when an enormous KE-RACK! splits the silence. Poor Sport was traumatized by the sound. He'd run to us with his hands over his ears.

In comparison, this storm has been really mild. Where's the toppling trees, cars skidding all over the road, cable lines being rent asunder, neighors cannibalizing each other? We haven't even had to light a candle.

It is cold, though. Watching the weather channel, Sport commented, "Look at that wind chilly -- 18 degrees!" He meant the wind chill factor. It was hilarious. But not as funny as the burp he ripped out only moments later. Not to be outdone, LegoGuy matched it with one of his own.

After this weekend, I may have a greater appreciation for a champion belch.

Do they have a 12-step program for this?

2007-01-07T07:39:00.000-08:00

I'm not like the average junkie. I can go for months without touching the stuff, watching others indulge while I sit immune. At first, I couldn't get enough of it. I was buying every month, spending long hours at my kitchen table, glassy-eyed and shaky. Eventually, I plateaued and was able to wean myself. Little by little, I got it all under control.

But every so often, I get the itch.

This weekend, I let the genie out of the bottle. I gathered my scrapbooking paraphernalia and newly-printed Christmas pictures and went on an all-out bender. I felt a little like CraftyMinx must when she gets a new shipment of yarn.

I haven't worked on my scrapbooks for awhile. Truthfully, my kids are out of the "cutie-pie" phase. LegoGuy is all arms, legs, and feet. His babyface doesn't match his gangly body. He looks a bit like a painting by Gauguin -- the perspective is all wrong. Sport's baby teeth are gradually being replaced by adult teeth. They're too big for his mouth. Right now, he looks like a refugee from the Appalachia highlands, especially after he's spent a couple hours playing soccer.

I've been lax taking pictures of late, but at Christmas I grudgingly got out the digital camera and starting snapping. For some reason, we fell way behind in our usual traditions -- we never put up the outside lights, didn't go visit Santa, didn't drive around looking at decorated homes and yards, and watched only a few of our favorite seasonal movies. Perhaps the fact that my mother has now sunk into a deep depression had a lot to do with my general ennui regarding the holidays. Still, I took some pictures when we went to visit friends, went to a cookie-decorating party, and spent Christmas Day with SO's family. I ended up with some pretty neat shots. As I looked through the bundle of photographs, I decided to work on a layout that was vastly different from the last 3 years of pictures in our Christmas album.

As I do before beginning any project, I headed downstairs to the library and picked up a stack of Creating Keepsakes magazines. I browsed through a couple before finding a layout I liked: not too fancy, nothing I couldn't do in less than a weekend. Later, I looked through my scrapbook papers and found a few I could use to set the mood. Then, I came up with a theme and selected a few photos that I wanted to highlight. The rest were trimmed down into smaller vignettes.

Then, my favorite part. Starting the first layout. I'm always excited to see how the first page turns out. If it's good, then I know I have a sure thing, and I'm off and running. If it's not so good, I have to spend more time working it out. Luckily, this time it worked on the first try. Before I knew it, I'd spent three hours hunched over the kitchen table. My hands were shaking from exhaustion and my breathing was shallow. My neck and back were aching. I knew I should stop and get to bed, but there was always just one more thing I wanted to get to before I could put it down.

"Mom, do you know..."

"Can't you see I'm busy?" I hissed. "I'm creating over here!"

The poor child slunk away, emotionally shattered that I hadn't answered one of his daily 257 questions. I, however, was distracted enough from my addiction to get up and go to bed.

"Hello, my name is AQ, and I'm a scrapaholic."

The thing in the basement

2007-01-02T18:28:00.000-08:00

The thing in the basement enjoys the dark. It spends most of the time sleeping, but wakes once in a while to see the figure of a man outlined against a rectangle of light. Clutching a pipe, the man heaves it over his head, standing like Thor among the giants.

"What have you done now, you sonovabitch?"

We are engaged in a battle of wills with an ancient boiler. As our Korean War-era building continues its lumbering march toward an Usher-esque ending, the thing in the basement exerts a malevolent power. Weekly, our Maintenance Man (MM) ambles in with a new set of challenges. Oddly enough, he's usually cheerful.

"Job security," he whistles as he struggles to cool the library below us while simultaneously re-routing the arctic blast in the offices above to an empty room.

"Interesting," he notes, removing tennis shoe laces, a partial toupee, and the head of a doll from the plumbing pipes.

"Freaky," he observes, rewiring the computer terminal that somehow was locked into the power grid downstairs. MM is amiable enough when it comes to handling these minor peculiarities, white mustache gleaming with the perspiration of his efforts, but the boiler is starting to drive him mad.

Last week it burned out a heat coil. Apparently, this particular heating system is so outdated, replacement parts are no longer available. Each time this thing malfunctions, pieces have to be special ordered and hand crafted by the cranky artisans of an unnamed company operating out of a garage in some unspecified location. Weeks go by without any word. We're afraid to ask MM when the part will arrive because he doesn't have an answer and his usually pleasant face will darken to a bright vermillion, mustache bristling like a gray caterpillar.

Meanwhile, we wait. If it's the middle of summer, temperatures inside the building can soar into the high 90s. Fans are plugged in, washcloths dampened and placed around necks, glasses of ice water quickly consumed, sweat stains ruin cotton shirts, tempers flair, friendships are damaged and later repaired.

If it's the middle of winter, like our latest incident, temps can hover around the low to mid 50s. Several layers of clothing are worn, hats and glovelets appear, hot chocolate is made and carefully sipped, the break room is abandoned for warmer environs, sniffles and coughs develop, conversation ceases and is replaced by shivering.

Long ago, we were told that personal heaters were not allowed. However, there's been a certain lack of leadership in the office over the last couple of years, and one woman dared to bring her heat fan to work. When the boiler broke, we watched with envy as she pulled out her fan and plugged it in, flooding the small space around her desk with heat.

Today there was an outright rebellion. With an outside temp of 25 and an indoor one of 50, the grunts had had enough. Several of us made surreptitious trips to a nearby Target, returning with heat fans. Plugging them in, we had a few luxurious moments of warmth.

Then, the circuits blew.

Defeated, we returned the heaters to their boxes. Below us, I could swear I heard the boiler give a triumphant guffaw.

Nice pants

2006-12-31T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's Day 7 of my Christmas vacation and I can feel my brain turning into jelly. It doesn't help that I tend to follow the boys around with a dustpan. Our house is small and with four bodies filling it from room to room, the clutter tends to pile up. Also, there's no escape from the Xbox, EPL review shows, GI Joe war games, or wrestling matches, so I'm going a little batty. We've had several days of rain, and now it's cold.

Honestly, I am counting the hours until I go back to work on Tuesday. I take refuge in the quiet repetitiveness of my job. Once everyone finishes sharing their New Year's celebration stories, I'll be back into the rhythm of productivity.

I have, however, been relatively productive here. I rallied the troops the day after Christmas to get all the decorations down and the house back to normal. I've worked on my scrapbooks and watched a couple of documentaries: Guns, germs & steel and When the levees broke. I've finished 4 books and am about to finish a 5th. I've made curtains for the boys' room and the guest room. We scouted out some new shades at Home Depot for our bedroom and the bathrooms. I've taught Sport how to do some strategic planning in Scrabble (he's getting pretty good) and we all tried to learn how to play our newest boardgame, Cranium.

I guess I'm feeling a bit of the post-Christmas letdown, although I'm glad it's over. I hate the way I feel the week before Christmas. Maybe it's my own weird hypersensitivity, but I swear I feel a pulsing energy rising from every store and home, a kind of collective desperation to meet ridiculously high expectations that gathers and melds into a shimmering entity that hovers over the city. I try to stay out of it myself, but it's not easy. And everytime I turn on the radio, someone is covering "Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas." As far as I'm concerned, only 2 people are allowed to sing that song: Judy Garland and Karen Carpenter. For anyone else to attempt it is blasphemy.

I wore my new pants today. I finally caved in and purchased a pair of flaired hip-huggers. It took me back to their days of origin -- circa 1970. I was in elementary school and somehow acquired a stylish pair of white flaired pants. I can't remember shopping for them. Perhaps they were pulled out of the church donation box, as were many of our clothes. In that time, kids didn't really care what they wore, but I fell in love with these pants. They had at least a 12-inch spread and made a satisfying swish when I walked. (I would have worn them everyday if given the chance, but my mom manage to sneak them away for a washing when dirt rings formed on the hems.) Coordinated with a jazzy pink plaid top and platform shoes, I felt like a million bucks -- if, that is, I ignored my Bugs Bunny overbite and waifish freckles.

Anyway, I thought I might be pushing it, trying to wear pants similar to ones I wore in the 3rd grade. But Gouldie said they looked good, and hey, I really love these pants.

Happy New Year, everybody!

How do you spell...

2006-12-26T19:31:00.000-08:00

"Stop spelling and go to bed!"

We just watched Akeelah and the Bee. And yes, the boys are now would-be Scripps National Spelling Bee champions. It's an interesting phenomena, one I'm sure many parents are familiar with. Or perhaps our kids are weirdos. But everytime we watch a movie, they morph into the hero/heroine or animal of interest. We once looked at a documentary on chickens. After we put the video away, we found them wandering through the hallway, scratching at the carpet with their toes and clucking.

"Weren't you supposed to put those clothes away six hours ago? Why don't you go in there and spell yourself into a clean room!"

Hopefully everyone got what they wanted for Christmas. We gave each other the gift of new windows this year. I'm not sure how I got to this point -- craving home improvement items rather than new shoes, diamonds, or the newest pair of designer jeans, but I've arrived with a vengeance. In fact, as we took a walk this afternoon, SO and I played a game in which we imagined we'd won $10,000 and had to say how we'd spend it (two rules: we couldn't blow it on one thing, and no gifts to charity). The first five items I named all had to do with improving the house: wood floors, gutters, cabinets, countertops, garden fountain.

"Mom, ask me any word. I can spell it!"

Our Christmas gathering was a lot of fun. We spent it with SO's family, and these people know how to party. In general, we're able to avoid the two big no-no's: politics and religion. They serve up lots of delicious food and decadent baked goods! (I ate so much sugar, I'll probably get diabetes in 2007.) There's always lots of alcohol (I'm partial to strawberry daiquiris myself) and plenty of family members to talk about and/or counsel through difficult times. After taking a call from Houston, my favorite sis-in-law shook her head as she hung up the phone. "We are such a dysfunctional family!" I'm convinced all families are dysfunctional in their own way. In fact, I think Tolstoy could be tweaked a bit to read: "Functional families are all alike; every dysfunctional family is dysfunctional in its own way."

"How do you spell mistletoe?"

When I think of all the things we've been through since I hooked my family up with my hubby's, it sounds like the worst kind of afternoon talk show: teenage pregnancy, alcoholism, multiple divorces, embezzlement, spousal abuse, larceny, drug abuse, car accidents, brain injuries, jail. But behind each story is the face of a loved one. The heart has a great capacity for understanding, forgiveness and acceptance, and something else.

I spell it: G-R-A-C-E.

Encore, bravo, encore!

2006-12-15T13:45:00.000-08:00

Sport’s piano recital was last weekend. This thing usually lasts about 3 hours (I am not exaggerating) as 30 students, ranging from the ages of 6 to 18, all perform a special piece of music. We are very proud of our boy, as he won the Outstanding Performer of the Year and was a big hit as The Narrator for the Romantic Period, looking adorable in his double-breasted suit and jaunty cap.

But I’m not going to brag on him.

About midway through the performance, two little old ladies came wobbling in and sat on our row. One was wearing her best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ fur coat. The other had her blue hair perfectly coiffed and was clutching a cavernous black bag. Settling into their chairs, faces creased with enigmatic smiles, they opened their programs to find the name of their musically-inclined loved one.

The auditorium in which the recital took place is no Carnegie Hall, but sound does travel. Shifting bodies, rustling papers, cranky babies – all combine to make distractions. We were warned by Ms. Melody at the beginning of the program to turn off cell phones and pagers and take crying children to the foyer. The two elders missed this particular speech.

During one rather long example of the Contemporary Period, the Woman in the Fur Coat (WFC) got a hankering for a Tic Tac. Tic Tacs, in a quiet space, are one of the loudest candies on the market. They got even louder when WFC fished for them in her bag, shook them in an effort to open the container, and then dropped her bag (and the entire contents) onto the floor.

It got even more interesting when the Blue-Haired Lady (BHL) got a call on her cell phone. It seemed to ring at least 5 times as she tried to locate it in the cavernous black purse.

“Hello?” BHL’s voice carried across the hall as the student on stage struggled with a difficult Scott Joplin piece.

“I’m at the recital.” Pause.

“The recital.” Her enigmatic smile dimmed slightly.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Another pause.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.” She carefully closed the phone. And, of course, did not turn it off.

A few minutes passed; then, her phone rang again.

“Hello?” Pause.

“I’m at the recital.” A sigh.

“The recital.” Slight cough.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Clearing of the throat.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.”

The exact same conversation, same inflection, same words, everything.

I got tickled and had to swallow down the giggles.

And then it rang again. By this time, I’m so cracked up at the whole thing that I’m feeling a wave of hysteria. Who in the world needs to talk to this 78-year-old woman so desperately that they keep calling back every five minutes? Does she have a secret lover? An impending book deal? Did she win the Publisher’s Weekly sweepstakes? Why didn't she turn off the damn phone?

LegoGuy saw me laughing into my coat and began giggling himself. SO, on the other side of us, started to lose it as well.

But what really got us happened in the middle of the last song. BHL’s phone rang again and at the same moment, WFC let go the longest, rat-a-tat-tat of a fart I’ve ever heard. Magnified by the acoustics of the hall, the sound was unmistakable.

As the music ended in a swell of fortissimo, applause filled the air. The three of us were able to finally let our laughter out, channeling guffaws into cries of “Bravo! Bravo!”

I am not a loser.

2006-12-12T17:02:00.000-08:00

I finished my Santa pillow! I started cross-stitching way back in 1994. As I was decorating the house for Christmas last weekend, I realized that I may be going overboard on this particular tradition. I've got about 16 of these, and I'm running out of places to put them. No, I don't keep them out all year, if that's what you're wondering. (I'm not a loser -- like Drew Barrymore's character in Never Been Kissed.) If I did that, they'd end up being ruined by the kids or chewed up by the dog. They come out once a year, and then are tucked back in the closet for the next 11 months.

This one, titled Santa & Friend, is my most recent.
(Click on photos to enlarge.)

Here's 3 others. Doesn't look like it, but that Merry Christmas one took longer than the other two.

This is the first one I made: Santa's enchanted sleigh.

My favorite: Santa Moon. The pattern wasn't difficult; it was the crazy quilt embroidered edges that nearly did me in.

Speaking of Christmas traditions, we've acquired so many over the years, it's almost hard to get them all in. To begin with, we decorate the tree the first weekend of December. I try to get the boys a special ornament from Hallmark. LegoGuy's been collecting the Kiddie Cars series since he was 2; unfortunately, the newest one is now sold out so I'm going to have to find it on Ebay -- at an exorbitant mark-up -- if he's going to have a complete collection. Sport's never found a series he likes. Last year he wanted a Harley Davidson motorcycle; this year, he went for the USA team jersey and soccer ball.

We've got 3 movies we watch: It's a wonderful life, A Christmas story, and A Muppet Christmas Carol. I usually take the boys to see the lights at a nearby children's home. We always head over to the Saint's house to decorate cookies with assorted icings and sprinkles.

I make up a Christmas letter and mail it to all our friends and relatives. Then there's usually a large family gathering at my family's house, after which we head over to SO's family for more merrymaking and gift-exchanging.

My favorite tradition, however, is the Christmas Eve candlelight service at my church. It's quiet, reflective, and beautiful -- a perfect ending to a busy, busy season.

Then, once January rolls around, it's time for me to start working on my next pillow. I've already picked out the pattern: Santa's midnight journey.

Okay, maybe I am a loser.

White hell

2006-12-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

Oklahoma blizzard, day 2.

A mountain of wet clothes sits disconsolately near the front door. Every pair of sweatpants in the closet lie there, along with mismatched sweatshirts, sodden socks, frozen mittens and soaked sneakers. Pools of icy mush litter the hallway. A couple of towels have been tossed aside with careless aplomb.

Pictionary Jr., Scrabble, Memory, Life, Battleship, and Operation have all been pulled off the shelf, played, and deemed "boring." The DVDs have been sorted, viewed, and tossed aside. The children are getting restless. Their 3-minute attention span can no longer be sated.

We already bundled up to take the dog for a walk at the pinnacle of the blizzard's high winds. An attempt was even made to build a snowman, despite the poor quality of the snow. Entertainment is at a low point. I'm getting desperate.

The boys have eaten every carbohydrate-laden snack in the house. We're down to a couple cans of soup and some stale bread. Even Bella's bacon treats are starting to look good. I'm beginning to feel like Tamsen Donner. Thank God SO doesn't have a hand injury or I'd have to start thinking of appetizing ways to serve him up for supper.

For a moment, I have a spark of hope. The library, it was rumored, would open at noon. I could make a break for it! But the phone call came, dashing my plans. Instead, SO is called into work due to a lack of employee turn-out.

I'm left staring into the hollow eyes of my children.

"What are we going to do now, Mom?"

I search my mind for something, anything. Reading? They wouldn't go for it. Old-fashioned ghost stories? They wouldn't last through the setting of the scene. Crafts? They'd only mock me.

Perhaps they sense my fear. Sport picks up a tiny soccer ball and bounces it up and down. LegoGuy, his eyes never leaving my face, pulls on his goalie gloves. It's time for a game of indoor football. If I never again hear the phrase, "Oh, what a beautiful goal from Steven Gerrard!" I will consider myself only moments away from nirvana.

Outside, the snow continues to fall. There's no escape from my white hell.

I didn't always dread snow days. In San Antonio, we had one about every 8 years. There's nothing more beautiful than snow on palm trees. My siblings and I once made a two-foot snowman by scraping our lawn with the lid of a trashcan. Sure, it was covered in St. Augustine turf, but it was beautiful nonetheless. In college, I was transfixed by falling snowflakes. During my first Oklahoma blizzard, we all got out and had a huge snowball fight. One of my friends, who'd grown up on the border of Texas and Mexico, convinced herself she'd gotten frostbite. We made fun of her relentlessly. Snow days are a blast when you've only got yourself to entertain.

But throw two kids into the mix, and it's impossible to spend hours reading by the fire, or cross-stitching quietly on the couch while listening to Christmas CDs. They want to be doing something constantly. If they aren't entertained, they're bored. And when they're bored, all hell breaks loose.

Oh God, what was that noise? Did they just knock down the trophy shelf? They did! Back in a little while...

...Later

I know, I know, I'll miss all of this when they are grown and gone. I believe you! I really do. LegoGuy is spending tonight at a friend's house. He's been gone for 6 hours now, and I miss him and his interminable, rambling soccer discussions. I miss the riotous laughter he and his brother share when they're up to something, or when we watch funny movies together like The Money Pit. I just hope it's six months before we get another Oklahoma blizzard.

I need the rest.

They call me Misopedia (but only on a really bad day)

2006-11-28T11:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve just validated the effectiveness of one of my oldest coping skills. When dreading an event, I’ll come up with a handful of terrible things that could happen. When nothing even comes close to the horrors of my overactive imagination, I can say, “That wasn’t so bad.”

I survived Thanksgiving. It was kind of fun, actually.

The boys slept late. SO and I popped out of bed and started making the sweet potato casserole, Hershey’s chocolate cake, and dinner rolls. I turned on the parade. When the boys came dragging into the living room, they were immediately bored by the floats, marching bands, and lip-synching pop stars. They donned their soccer gear and went outside.

At 10:30, I pulled a wine cooler out of the fridge and took a drink. It didn’t get me tipsy, but psychologically, I felt prepared. By 11:30 we were loading up the van for the short drive to my parent’s house.

“How’s Dad?” I asked my brother while we were unloading the food.

“I’d say he’s a 5 on the Gripe-O-Meter,” he replied. “Started out at 2, but Baby Sis called to say she would be late, and he shot up to a 7. He’s had a while to calm down, so I think he’s evened out at the half-way mark.”

Thank God! Dad had already fixed his baleful eye on another member of the family. Baby Sis was going to be the focus of his ire. I was home free! I’d left another wine cooler in the van as a back-up plan, but it seemed I wouldn’t be needing it. Sure enough, when my sister showed up nearly 30 minutes late, she’d also forgotten the pumpkin pie. Let the griping begin!

Even better, both my kids ate their dinner without complaint. Baby Sis’s oldest child is the world’s pickiest eater. The only way he maintains his stocky build is by gorging on sweets and French fries. He whined through most of the meal, taking the white hot light of Dad’s critical eye off my boys. Anyone who refuses to eat a home-cooked meal earns my father’s ridicule and disdain.

Anyone, apparently, but this 3rd and favorite grandchild. My dad chuckled with amusement when Baby Sis threatened the kid. “You won’t get any chocolate cake!”

“Neither will you, if you don’t clean your plate,” Dad threw back at her.

We successfully avoided any kind of political or religious discussions by playing one of my dad’s favorite games, Balderdash. He doesn't play to win; he plays to amuse. He likes making up definitions for obscure words, but he absolutely loves reading the definitions the rest of us come up with. He actually laughed so hard, he had tears running down his face.

Some samples:

Bolied

mineral found only in the Dead Sea
a chemical used to make ale
excessive bullying from below the Mason-Dixon line

Tib

a wooden spike
fancy pen
famed playwright of the Algonquin Roundtable

Snath

early American hat
ancient form of flying creature from the Cretaceous Period
round pebbles found in brooks or streams

Mummichog

embalming fluid used in Ancient Egypt
Japanese fish chowder
a silver killfish found along the US Atlantic ocean

Gleb

parlor game
lapdog-like creature from Star Wars lore
one who is constipated

Crawthumpers

mutant animal created in a secret lab, a mix of crab and rabbits
religious fanatics
clogging dance group sensation based out of Pottawatamie County, OK, who rose to the height of popularity during the 1960s before dying in a tragic tainted crawfish-eating contest

Misopedia

Dictionary of bugs
Compendium of stories
hating children, especially your own

My dad was in such a good mood after the game ended, he even challenged me to a game of Scrabble. (I refused, remembering the last time we played in which I was reduced to tears by his accusations that I was cheating. How do you cheat at Scrabble, short of raiding the bag when nobody else is looking?) I think I'm going to incorporate Balderdash in every family gathering from now on. Once the tension starts to mount and the fur to fly, I'll pull it out.

"I've been bolied by you crawthumpters once too often. Now grab a tib and let's have us a gleb!"

Bottoms up!

2006-11-19T14:58:00.000-08:00

Robert Benchley was an avid teetotaler until Prohibition made the speakeasy the hangout of the privileged in-crowd. One night in the fall of 1920, as Dorothy Parker and another friend ordered a round of drinks, he asked them to get him something other than his usual glass of orange juice. At the tender age of 31, Benchley took his first social drink, putting him on the road to alcoholism and eventual death due to cirrhosis of the liver.

I'm not sure I'm ready for social drinking yet, but starting on Thursday, I'm gonna have to get used to knocking back a few in the privacy of my own home. I figure a couple or three bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade will be all it takes to put a rosy hue on the festivities. The best laid plans of Saint and Queen have fallen apart, and I'm spending Thanksgiving with my family.

It helps to remember what my pastor said this morning. "Every family is dysfunctional in its own way." During our family gatherings, if I'm not criticized for my choice of churches, political affiliation, or for being an all-around smarty pants, then I'm often accused of cheating at Scrabble or am taken to task for my unusually large vocabulary which puts me, according to the clan, at an unfair advantage when playing Balderdash.

Other past Harvest highlights:

The year my brother put my (now ex-) brother-in-law in a sleeper hold, nearly causing unconsciousness
The infamous dishwasher loading debacle of 2001
The gun control debate
The "What I Am Thankful For" 45-minute prayer
The "Racist Joke" moratorium of 1998
The ceremonial retelling of the "Give Them Kids the White Bread" incident
The paper-plate fiasco of 2003

For whatever reason, our gatherings are usually tense -- at least for me. And now that I know there's no escaping it, I'm determined to make the best of it. This time, I'm not going to get my feelings hurt. This time, I'm going to have fun. This time, I'm going to compete and win at whatever game we decide to play -- no quarter asked, no quarter given! And if it takes a dash of spirits to get me through it, then so be it.

Cheers, everybody-- hope you have a great holiday! (Hiccup.)

How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?

2006-11-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

It's time to form a committee to plan our annual Christmas Luncheon, the one thing that passes for a social event at my workplace in which we are all invited to whip up a dish of our favorite holiday recipes -- concoctions that call for at least one can of Campbell's soup, a cup of chopped onion, and a "mystery" ingredient passed down from generation to generation.

I was committee chair last year. It's an honor that is supposed to rotate from one department to another, yet this week I was asked to be chair once again. I was flattered and horrified at the same time. Eager to push the responsibility onto someone else, I stammered, "W..w..what about the chair rotation precedent?" The white hot spotlight of responsibility moved from me and focused on another.

Don't get me wrong; I like parties. My favorite time of year is October when I get to plan and execute our annual pumpkin carving party that once got to be so popular among my friends and family, I had to start limiting invitations. I've served on the Christmas Luncheon Committee (CLC) a number of times in various capacities: decorating, clean-up, music, set-up, meat delivery. There seem to be more rules and regulations involved in the planning than there is in a peace treaty negotiated by the United Nations between North Korea and their terrified neighbors to the south. It's a heck of a lot of work, but the food is always good. Sometimes there are complaints, but most people appreciate the endeavor.

Serving as chair, however, is another matter. As Ben Parker famously said, "With great power comes great responsibility." The truth is, I failed in my duties as committee chair. I lost the meat.

There, I said it. Even now it hurts to think about the eager faces, plates in hand, opening the refrigerator the day after last year's Christmas Luncheon to find a foil-topped tray absolutely bereft of smoked briskit and oven-roasted turkey. The day before, I'd watched as committee members consolidated the two trays of meat into one giant vat of cooked flesh easily weighing 10 pounds, licking their lips at the thought of the leftover feast awaiting us all. Alas, it was not to be. By noon the next day, the meat was gone, leaving behind only the faint aroma of barbeque sauce and gravy.

There were plenty of suspects, but few clues. Co-workers were considered and then ruled out, until only a tiny handful of possible culprits remained. There was no proof, so only suspicions remain. The Great Meat Mystery of 2005 remains unsolved to this day.

But I won't give up. As O.J. Simpson famously promised to find "the real killer or killers" of his ex-wife and her friend, so have I vowed to find out who took the meat (that is, unless I can get a publishing deal for a book I'd call If I Took It, a purely hypothetical exercise in which I describe how I would have pulled off the meat heist).

Not that I'm admitting anything, mind you.

You're yearning, burning for somebody to tell you that life ain't passing you by

2006-11-12T17:41:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since the Class of 1986 held onto the ivy ring, threw our caps into the air and said our goodbyes. When I walked off campus that spring day, I didn't think I'd be back in five years, much less 20.

Forgot about the fact that I'd been elected Senior Class VP. Apparently, it's a lifetime appointment. I might have had second thoughts about running if I'd realized I'd be on the reunion planning committee for the rest of my life. To be honest, I was only trying to get my picture in the yearbook.

We had a pretty good group show up this year, some of my very best buddies. Three of the five original "Manhunters" from Sophomore Follies were there. We reminisced about the faculty and staff directors who, during rehearsal, told us we couldn't shake our hips to the song, forcing us to re-choreograph part of the routine.

Most of the perps from the Great Police Helicopter Chase showed up as well: the driver and four of the passengers. Huffaker retold the story and we all mocked Mercer once again. She was the only one of us who asked to be dropped off at the dorm on our way to the police station, since she'd never been in trouble before.

A contingency of representatives from the Dallas Friday Night Getaway also dropped by, as well as those who went on the Hereford Homecoming Weekend, took part in the infamous Barn Dance, the Toad Suck Daze retreat, Heart Pal Court Bowling Night, every class trip, and much more. I didn't realize how many wild, crazy, and downright stupid things we'd done. One mother gazed at the group of our children nearby and sighed. "If my kid did something like that, I'd kill 'em." A tremor of fear went through us. Once our kids get to college, they aren't going to tell us anything. And it's probably a good thing.

I spent a lot of time visiting with one girl who wasn't part of my crowd. I remember being jealous of her because she snagged a boyfriend during freshman year and continued to date him throughout the next four years. So devoted was he to her that for his photography class project, he created an entire slide show featuring pictures of her -- backlit, soft focus, set to music (I believe it was "Wind beneath my wings"). Meanwhile, the rest of us gals glowered in the classroom, nursing our broken hearts. The couple, still married, had a couple of teenage kids with them and they were all really cool.

Gouldie put together an amazing slide show. She also wowed us with a set of trivia questions: five from each year. A sampling:

How many chapels were we allowed to miss during a semester?
This fancy free movie became the theme for our sophomore class trip.
During our junior year, who gained international attention as the leader of the Polish solidarity movement?
What terrible event happened during our senior year, on Jan. 28, 1986?

As much as I complained about having to pull this thing together, I'm glad I made the effort. In their company, the years fell away again. I felt like I was 18 again and breaking curfew to hang out on the dock at the lake, listening to Thriller, or sneaking away to play hide-and-seek in a graveyard with a bunch of other goofballs.

As one reunion attendee put it, "It was 4 years of church camp!" Minus the adult supervision.

Happy now?

2006-11-11T14:17:00.000-08:00

Update: Okay you relentless, competitive folks, here's my updated version:

Adroit
Diligent
Judicious
Exaggerative
Capricious
Trichromatic
Incandescent
Verbalistic
Efficacious

Quintessential
Ultrasophisticated
Engaging
Evanescent
Neurotic

Are you happy now? You better be!

Down the rabbit hole

2006-11-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning, I thought I'd somehow been transported to a parallel universe. How else to explain:

Democrats taking the House
Democrats close to taking the Senate
Donald Rumsfeld resigning
Bush admitting Democrats care about national security as much as he does
Bush offering to help Nancy Pelosi decorate her office as she becomes the first woman Speaker of the House

Where's the Mad Hatter? Where's the White Rabbit?

I went into the midterm election with about a 90% certainty that, despite the apparent mood of the country and will of the people, dirty politicians would somehow fix the election to skew their way through voter intimidation, malfunctioning Diebold machines, and subterfuge. I had only a smidgen of hope that things would turn out the way I wanted: I want the 2-party system to work again!

Tomorrow, I'll start fretting, but today I'm letting myself feel happy and hopeful about the future. I heard some nameless commentator say that people who were worried about the direction of the country and the state of American democracy should be happy today. It still works! This guy says it better than I could: Is America a great country or what?

Cataloged a fun book this afternoon aimed at elementary kids: If you were an adjective. On the back, the author writes: If you were an adjective, you would make the world colorful. You could be spectacular, brilliant, dazzling, or daring. He offers a challenge: write your name from top to bottom and think of adjectives that describe you.

Audreyesque
Quirky

inQuisitive
fUn
Energetic
Empathetic
Nice

I cheated a little, but I think it works.

Okay, humor me. Saint, DoOL, Gypsy, Minx, Loonie, PastGrace, and other faithful readers, it's your turn!