What is the sound of one parent clapping?

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

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

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!"

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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...