All Is Fair

Surfing the Sandhills

2012-01-31T08:30:00.000-08:00

I have gotten it in my head that I am going to learn to surf. I voiced this out loud to a coworker (in her 20s, from Southern California) and expressed my concern about being able to pop up on the surf board (the pop up is when you go from laying on your stomach to standing on the board). "You can totally do it! It's not hard!" she insisted. And she demonstrated a pop up for me in the hallway of my office in her work clothes.

So California. So 20s, when everything seems possible. And positive. Why was she being nicer to me than I am to myself?

You can totally do it! It's not hard!

So I entered an essay contest to win a week at a surf camp for women:

In a landlocked State my connection to the rhythms of the planet comes from the change in seasons and migration of birds, not the ocean. I hike under a huge sky through tall prairie grass growing on an ancient sea. When hiking in the Sandhills, now grazing land for cattle, I find broken bits of seashell left from sea creatures 15,000 years ago. Grass moves in the wind like water, though the ocean water left is deep beneath the Sandhills in an enormous aquifer under the Plains.

I turned 41 years old this year and I am floundering a bit to stay afloat. It took much less than 15,000 years for my life to change, but as I age and take on more leadership in my career, as my children become adults, as my body and mind resist the notion that they are somehow “old,” I feel a need to reconnect with myself and the Earth. I surf the hills on my walks far from the ocean and long to surf actual waves. I want to connect to the rhythm of the ocean in Las Olas by actively riding the waves rather than simply letting them crash around me.

Censorship

2012-01-29T07:59:00.000-08:00

I recently commented about bellydance that I have never had such a stressful hobby. Troupe drama. Studio drama. It just never seems to end. Every time I think that I am at a point where I can relax and just enjoy dancing, something new happens to stress me out and suck out the fun.

Weekend dance workshops usually include a show or hafla at the end of the day. It's a chance to perform for people who enjoy the same hobby. I registered for a workshop and another member of my troupe also registered. We rehearsed a duet to a fun electronic Klezmer song that had both slow and fast.

So, Friday night, the night before the workshop, we found out that the hosts of the workshop found our song offensive and that they had tried to edit the song themselves and that we either had to edit the song or bring a new one. It was 10:30pm when my troupe mate and I discussed what to do. She chose not to go at all. I went but left after the workshop and skipped the dinner and show. I let them know that we were not happy with the censorship of our song. She whispered the offensive line, and I have to say that I don't think the singer actually says that.

There were many, many ways to handle this problem. The chosen path resulted in a lot of anger and was unnecessary. I actually emailed the band to see if I can get the lyrics from them. I am not sure what I will do with the lyrics once I have them, but hopefully I will have calmed down enough to use the opportunity to draft an email about how disappointed I was in how this was handled, and by the way, you are wrong! (Yeah, see, I am not ready to write it yet...)

Time Travel

2012-01-23T06:14:00.001-08:00

I was sitting in the teacher's lounge at my alma mater when a nice young kid (20 years old?) sat down next to me and when I looked up at him he gestured at my Kindle.

"Reading anything good?" he asked.

"I'm reading the Stephen King book about the Kennedy assassination," I said.

"Non-fiction, then?" he said good naturedly.

I searched his face for irony and found none. He just didn't know who Stephen King is.

I was already feeling the space/time continuum weight due to the old school/teacher's lounge/novel about time travel/reading a favorite author of my teen aged years. Oof.

11/22/63 is Stephen King's fictional account of the Kennedy assassination. If you could go back in time and stop the assassination, would you? And what would the effect be? I really liked the book. I have always been a Stephen King fan and there were some parts of this that reminded me why. Some of it is not so good, of course, but it was a fun read and raised some interesting ideas. I am a little obsessed with what it would be like to be Lee Harvey Oswald's daughters, for example.

7 Degrees

2012-01-19T06:31:00.000-08:00

I could not help but notice the lack of coats this morning at the high school. It's been a mild winter, but still, there is no mistaking the temperature this morning. I saw several boys wearing long, baggy basketball shorts (even just past the knees leaves a lot exposed in weather like this). I saw one boy wearing a short sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He was walking along reading a paperback book like it was June. Of course there was also the usual assortment of pajama pants and animal hats (puppies, cats, cows, etc.). One of the boys in basketball shorts and a sweatshirt was at least wearing a stocking cap.

I think for a minute, how did their mothers let them leave like that?! And then, as a mother of teenagers herself, I know exactly how it happened. Sigh. Well, at least they look cool, right?

The Pilot's Wife

2012-01-17T06:36:00.001-08:00

Sometimes a story of intrigue will grip you and you can't turn the pages fast enough. Sometimes your book club will pick a book that will annoy you and finish with major irritation as you are unable to suspend belief. This is the latter.

What are you reading?

2012-01-10T07:38:00.000-08:00

('Cause I want a place to keep track.)

The Art of Fielding was described to me as Franzen-like. It is. I loved the dialogue and characters. A beautiful book about people and baseball.

Swamplandia is about a family living in the Everglades. This definitely went in directions I did not expect. Some adult issues, or I would suggest it for precocious middle school girls.

The Tiger's Wife is about Balkan history, which helps it make more sense to me than it did when I was reading it and didn't know that. I am not usually de-railed by fable and allegory, but this book irritated me with its vagueness. For the record, I am ok with _The Jungle Book_ being The Bible.

Ageism

2012-01-09T07:39:00.000-08:00

Frank and I were driving to school this morning (and incidentally, yay, school is back in session!) and on the radio they announced that it was Jimmy Page's birthday today and that he turned 68.

"68!" Frank exclaimed. "And he's still playing the guitar and touring the world."

"Yep," I said.

"Kind of like Grandma and Poppy who went to Ireland for Christmas. They're in their 60s, too. When you're 68 you can tour the world," he observed.

"That's true," I said.

"Ooh, look, a Porsche!" Frank said, and then he was off talking about motors and wheel bases and stylistic observations about the particular model of Porsche next to us on South Street.

I was left reflecting on my son's rather optomistic outlook about what it means to be 68. There was a lot of commentary a couple of years ago as the Rolling Stones were on tour in their 60s. Rock is aging, but I think it bothers older people more than younger people. My son is compeltely fine with old rock and rollers. In fact, he thinks it's cool.

This weekend I was at a debate tournament with my daughter's school. I have been really struck by how similar everything seems to me. The kids are adorable in their suits and earnest in their willingness to please and their desire to win. Many of the same people are around. Several of my fellow debaters are back as fathers of kids who now debate. My coach, a new teacher and coach when I had him, is now at the top of his game coaching-wise. He is well-respected and has earned it. He's friendly and smart and fair - all qualities that he had as a young teacher which have served him well in his career.

I was talking with a friend from high school when my old coach came by and observed, "Lea looks just like she did in high school." The comment caught me by surprise, but it was a nice compliment. I don't feel like the same person. I am heavier and greyer and more cynical. I think that changes are more obvious to the individual than they are to everyone else. I look in the mirror these days and see my mother's face when she was 41, but when I look at my mother in her 60s, I don't think I see her as she is now; somehow my brain has not allowed that aging to occur yet. And really, it is that trick of the brain, to see someone as they were, that allows us to love Jimmy Page at 68.

Love Quiche

2011-10-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

The house smelled amazing when I got home yesterday.

"It's Love Quiche!" Mary and her friend declared as they pulled the quiche from the oven. Eggs, four kinds of cheese, milk, and onions. The most simple quiche in the world.

A Frost Warning warning echoed in my head, so as the girls sliced and served the quiche, I pulled the tomato plants from the garden and hung them upside down in the basement. I cut herbs and tied them in bunches to dry while they hang in the stairwell and felt a little like Laura Ingalls (I love that Garth Williams illustration of Laura and Mary playing in the attic of the cabin during the winter.).

(It was not a good summer for tomatoes in Nebraska. I planted late due to the heavy rain in the early spring. And it was miserably hot for weeks on end which interferred with the tomatoes. (They need water but not too much water and they need sun, but not too much sun. They're really not difficult to grow. Things were extreme this year.) So the result is that I have plants heavy with healthy GREEN tomatoes. And there are only so many green tomato things that I want to cook (I do like a green tomato pizza). But if you pull the plants by their roots and hang them upside down in a dry, dark place, they ripen. Really!)

I sliced some ripe heirloom tomatoes to serve along side the Vegetarian "Love Quiche," as the girls called it. They outlined their cooking process - the eggs came from the friend's chickens, the crust was my Grams' recipe, written on a notecard from my recipe box, and the quiche recipe came from Julia Child (who of course liked to cook chickens, as well as eat chicken eggs).

It was amazing and we ate it all.

Muscle Cars are Orange

2011-09-27T05:07:00.001-07:00

Frank is a huge fan of the British show, "Top Gear." He watches it streaming on Netflix and is strongly influenced by the goofy, rowdy trio. He has developed a hated of the Toyota Prius, for example, and pronounces it PRY-us. He will comment off-handedly about the engine size of the cars around us at the traffic light. To my surprise, I like the show as well. The personalities are fun, and my favorite segment is the challenges segment. The episode we watched last night was a test of cheap cars on the Autobahn and then the "Industry Standard Oompah Band Test" when cars were stuffed full of a driver, and an oompah band including a tuba, trumpet, etc. and tested for "roominess."

I really like that kind of humor. And it goes over really well with my 12 year old.

Last night Frank and I were painting the attic and Frank began talking about muscle cars (probably one muscle car in particular, I don't remember) and I asked, "What is a "muscle car," exactly?"

Frank immediately started listing things that make a car a "muscle car." "Well, they're American. And they are designed to go fast, but don't do so well on curves. It's because of their soemthingsomething (I forgot what he said) suspension. (There was a lot more information here about block engines and other stuff that I can't remember. He went on for awhile.) And they're orange," he finished.

"They're orange?"

"Well, or at least some portion of the paint job is orange," Frank said.

I don't know a lot about cars, but I do know that muscle cars come in colors other than orange. What is really funny to me about this is that I am sure the orange color comment comes from the Top Gear guys who were making a joke, and Frank doesn't even know it's a joke, but he knows what kind of suspension a Dodge Charger has. (Seriously, those come in blue and stuff, right?)

Parenting is not what I expected at all. And even as much as you can prepare for it, it surprises you and the kids become themselves and start to become adults and I find myself painting a ceiling with a boy that I know intimately and at the same time hardly know - his physical manifestation outside of my body still surprises me sometimes. He feels like a part of me, but we are separate. His interests will change a hundred times in his life and I feel so fortunate to share time like the time we had last night. Very soon he will be a teenager and then a man and he will drive away in his Shelby Mustang and paint ceilings with someone else. This is my baby, I thought, as we painted together.

"Mom, are you ok?" Frank asked when he noticed I was crying.

"Yeah, I'm just really sure that not all muscle cars are orange."

Turn That Racket Down

2011-09-09T06:23:00.000-07:00

On the night that CBGB closed down, Bill and I sat up late listening to records - Blondie, The Ramones, The Talking Heads, Patti Smith, etc. At one point Bill's teen-aged daughter came down from her room, leaned over the banister and said, "Could you please turn that down? It's really loud." Bill and I looked at each other in surprise and giggled.

Kids these days don't like loud music. My kids complain all the time that I listen to music too loudly. Beach House was on the radio when I dropped Mary off today and I had the volume cranked up. As usual, she begged me to turn the music down before she got out of the van at school so that I wouldn't embarrass her with my loud music.

"Why do you listen to it so loud?" she asked.

"I want to be inside the song," I explained. "I want to feel it all around me like the song is holding me."

"You're weird, mom," she said.

I need a walker to shake as I yell, "You kids and your damn ear bud headphones!" Of course, they won't even hear me because they'll have those little headphones shoved in their ears. The headphones create a personal experience of music that doesn't have a physical component to it.

I like to think that someday my grandkids and I will horrify their parents with our loud rock and roll. "Tell me again about the wall of speakers and how Ministry got fined for being too loud at the Lollapalooza concert, Grandma."

Turn it up.

Baseball Pants

2011-07-12T06:36:00.000-07:00

I love watching baseball.

My favorite part about watching baseball on TV is seeing inside the dugout. You're basically watching the boss of a million dollar corporation work. It would be like someone sitting in my office watching me work (except for the million dollar corporation part). Baseball managers are rarely seen when you're at the ballpark. Without the tv camera view of the dugout, they are briefly seen when they come out to talk to the pitcher or more notably, when they come out to yell at the umpire. My favorite though is when all you see is a water cooler hurled onto the field - that cracks me up. While they frequently get upset with umpires, baseball managers show very little public emotion towards their players. I love the closeups when a player has a great play or a bone head mistake - the manager's face often has the same stoic look. He might turn his head to the side and spit, but he doesn't yell at players publicly (usually).

With all the admiration that I have for baseball managers, they also have the dumbest habit - wearing a baseball uniform. It's insulting to them. Football coaches wear golf shirts and khakis. Basketball coaches wear suits. What's up MLB? I like to say that the first major fight that Bill and I had was over this issue (Wrigleyville 2003). (At this point the fight is just that I won't drop this issue.)

Last night at Frank's Little League game I appreciated the fact that the coaches don't wear baseball pants (they wear the jersey, which I think is enough). I became annoyed at the constant, constant, constant redirection. chokeupgetintheboxgetintoitbeahitteryougottacatchthosegetintotheplatewatchhimhesgoingtosteal. It ruins the pace and flow of the game. It upsets the kids and doesn't help them at all. I watched the face of the pitcher who failed to cover home plate on a wild pitch - he was actually on his way to home plate (but too late) as the coach yelled at him. I thought, that kid knows he screwed up, there is no reason to yell at him. There were lots of examples like that.

I don't want to return to the early days where we could only say encouraging things and everyone gets a trophy blahblah. (My favorite thing about Little League is that I can applaud when the pitcher strikes a kid out. I always feel bad for the kid walking away dragging his bat and avoiding eye contact, but strike outs are cool.) I think kids should lose sometimes and I think they should screw up and let it get in their head. You wouldn't let that kid's teammates yell at him about failing to cover home, so why should the coach? And also? You don't need to. That pitcher will move faster next time because he'll remember that mistake more than anyone else.

Frank had some not so great moments in the game last night and those moments were weighing on him as we walked to the van. He also had some great moments.

"I loved your double," I said.

"It was more like a single with an error," he said.

"Eh. And then I loved when you ran and slid into home."

His face brightened. "That was cool," he said.

"Yes," I said.

In reality I was actually grimacing as I watched the bodies potentially collide and the ball being thrown into home plate (12 year olds can throw hard! right at his little body!). I am glad that the kids wear baseball pants and an athletic cup.

Artistic Differences

2011-06-20T05:31:00.000-07:00

I quit dancing with Troupe Sicorae and now dance exclusively with Ouvert. I've never had a breakup quite like this. One of the weird things about breakups is announcing them. It feels weird to say it out loud, and then once you do, no one knows what to say in response. I am saying this aloud to clear up confusion. I have performed with both troupes this spring, but I have recently decided to quit Troupe Sicorae. I am still a member of the dance co-op that rents the studio. I will continue to dance with Troupe Sicorae at haflas and informal events, but it will be as improvisational dancers with the same base language, not members of the same troupe. I am sad even though I am happy.

The picture above was taken by Ben Bird at the Farmer's Market as I watched Troupe Sicorae perform. I love the peacefulness on my face and strive for that every day.

Strangers in Knoxville: First post - a test!

2011-05-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

Frank and his Destination Imagination team qualified for Global Finals in Knoxville, TN. He and a teammate and their team manager are on their way now where they will meet up with the other two members of their team. (It's a bit Planes, Trains and Automobiles at this point.)

Stacy, the team manager, is blogging the experience with the kids' help. You can follow the blog by clicking HERE.

A Big Juicy Burger

2011-05-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy couple of weeks. Concerts and finals and lots of weekends out of town. When I look at my evenings in the next couple of months, it does look as if things aren't slowing down, because apparently my Life is Baseball. But the thing about baseball is that it is relaxing. You're outside. Sounds aren't on top of you like at a basketball game. It doesn't move as fast as soccer. The pace calms me and even though we have to hustle through dinner and search for socks that I swore were on the laundry table and now aren't, by the time you get to the field a calmness has come over you and as a parent I appreciate the assigned time to sit outside on a spring evening.

Frank loves baseball. Tonight he pitched and caught and played outfield. He got several hits and runs. He is meshing well with his teammates and his coach appreciates him. I am predicting a good season.

Frank wanted a burger. "A big, juicy burger that I can sink into," he said after the game. "I ate dinner more than four hours ago!" he exclaimed.

I talked him into a stop at the store to get some groceries and assured him that I could make him a burger while he took a shower. In addition to ground beef we also got fruit, eggs, juice, and lentils.

"Argh! Not lentil soup!" he moaned.

"No. Lentil tacos," I said.

"Ah! Lentil tacos!" he said.

Because lentil tacos are one of my kids' favorite dinners. Even my knuckle bumping baseball player with smelly, dusty clothes loves lentil tacos. And? You make them in the crock pot! Perfect for nights that you need a quick dinner before heading to the ballpark. 'Course if you're the mother of an 11 year old boy you may find yourself also cooking a big, juicy burger later that night, but at least you know that the first dinner was cheap, lowfat and nutritious lentils!

Lentil Tacos
3/4 C onions, finely chopped
1 garlic clove
1 t oil
1/2 lb lentils
1 T chili powder
2 t cumin
1 t oregano
2 cups broth

Saute onions in oil until tender. Add garlic, lentils and spices. Cook and stir for 1 minute.
Put lentil mixture and broth in the crock pot for 6 hours on slow.
Add salsa and stir.
Serve in soft or hard taco shells topped with lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, sour cream, etc.

Play ball!

Mother Jones

2011-04-26T04:47:00.000-07:00

New developments in my household: Anna works at a grocery store deli. She also drives. This means that I don't have to take her to and from work, but as her mom it also means that I can't go to bed until she gets home.

The deli officially closes at 9. She has to help clean up and do some prep work and so the actual time that she leaves varies and depends on how busy they were, etc.

I put Mary and Frank to bed at 10 and then wait for Anna. Usually I clean up the kitchen or start a load of laundry.

She comes home tired and smelling of Hy Vee Chinese. We sit and talk for a few minutes about her supervisor that night, or a coworker. She describes the huge pots with baked on food that she scrubbed. She complains about her giant smock, though it is sized "small." I feel a bit like a labor organizer as I question the late hours and work conditions. My little worker shrugs and says "eh." We go to bed.

I love it when new routines create themselves. This new job concerns me a bit, but I have to admit that I love our time together after she gets home from work and needs to unwind a bit. I have a found a window of opportunity to talk to a teen. That's harder than talking to management.

We are Men of Harvard

2011-04-02T20:20:00.001-07:00

"I had more than once stated in public that in my opinion a five-foot—at first a three-foot—shelf would hold books enough to afford a good substitute for a liberal education to anyone who would read them with devotion, even if he could spare but fifteen minutes a day for reading," Dr. Eliot, President of Harvard University for forty years, explains in the Introduction to the Reading Guide.

A week or so ago I started a project that I have been meaning to do for years. I am following Dr. Eliot's reading suggestions for a year. I moved the Harvard Classics to my bedroom and I end the evening with fifteen or so minutes of reading.

These selections would have my friend Tara throwing herself about dramatically complaining about reading the white male perspective again.

I love Tara for this reason, but I also like to read things written from the white male perspective.

I won't blog about every reading, but I am sure it will come up. Tonight my mind is full of Browning's memories of spring in England. It is a pleasant image and one that resonates as I watch spring come to my part of the world.

I have recently rid myself of pounds and pounds and pounds or books. I have flung them in the air in various ways - the free shelf for clients at my office, my dance studio, the Goodwill, and even a coffee shop. They are books I love, but books that I no longer need to have around me.

There are books that I will never get rid of. Among them are my Harvard Classics. The set was a gift when I graduated from law school. My Great Grandfather had a set of them and I always admired them and wished to read them. My Grams remembered that. :-)

Perhaps you have heard my rant against the business administration degree? I think they're crap. And I think Dr. Eliot would agree with me. Bank Presidents should read Browning. I am serious.

Stop the World - I Want to Get Off

2011-03-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

The first time I heard the title "Stop the World - I Want to Get Off," I thought it was brilliant. The rest of the musical disappointed me, though. :-)

This week has been harrowing. Marital stuff, dance troupe stuff, work stuff, and then yesterday I got a call that Anna was on her way to the hospital in an ambulance because she had been in a car accident. I felt the world stop as I shoved stuff in my purse, let my assistant know that I was leaving, and as I sat in the hospital ER waiting room waiting for the ambulance, it seemed like everything was moving around me but I was not part of it.

We pieced together what happened - "hanging out" turned into "driving around" and the boy driving took the corner on the gravel road too quickly and rolled the car.

Anna was bloody and banged up, but she checked out ok and she was allowed to come home. The driver and other passenger didn't get as banged up as Anna. The driver was pretty hysterical and got quite a lecture from the Sheriff and from his dad. All I could do was hug him and assure him that Anna was ok. She was already on the phone with him as we left the hospital.

Today already feels crazy. We slept in and I am heading into work late. My red message light is going to be blinking like crazy. I hate that message light.

Can I at least have Stop the World - I Want the Phone to Stop Ringing?

I joked that I need a pause button for my life. A friend suggested a mute button. That would be ok, too.

This is Not a Rebel Song

2011-03-18T06:04:00.000-07:00

My dog is a Golden RETRIEVER and that means that she wants to carry stuff in her mouth. I reward her with things to carry. When she goes in her crate or out of her crate, I offer her one of her many stuffed toys and she carries them with her. She piles them around the house. She offers her ratty toys to the cats as peace offerings (they are doubly offended that she would approach them and that she would offer them such a digusting gift). When she is in the yard she is constantly rearranging sticks and leaves and balls and whatever else she can find on the ground. It makes walks interesting. Usually she carries sticks, but she also picks up paper cups, fast food wrappers, kleenex, unidentifiable garbage.

"Drop it," I say, and she will drop it into my hand for me to dispose of.

Retrievers are gross, but they are also obedient.

A couple of days ago she picked up a stick and carried it the last block home. When we got to the house I said, "Drop it," and tried to take the stick from her. What dropped into my hand was the full vertebrae of a squirrel. I realized in horror that she had picked up the spine of the squirrel that has been rotting on the corner since the fall. I have watched as it flattened, dried, got buried by snow, reappeared in the defrost, and now here I was holding the spine of a squirrel.

Disgusting and possibly disease ridden, yes, but also really fascinating.

The image seared itself in my brain and I see spines on people around me and my animals and picture the spine I held in my hand.

It's been a trying couple of weeks. Last night we had lentil tacos and went to a band concert. Baths, report supervision, dishes, etc. I talked with the teen about some boy drama.

Moms don't get a lot of support. We give a lot, but the thanks is often an afterthought.

"You didn't make corned beef and cabbage this year," the teen commented as she went up to bed.

"I wasn't up to it this year," I said. And left on my own on the main floor, I pulled out my favorite U2 album and decided to finish off St. Patrick's Day with my favorite Irish men. I turned the volume way up and lay on the floor so I could feel the music through the floorboards. The kids stood on the stairs and yelled at me that the music was too loud. I yelled back that I just wanted to listen to one album. And then I relaxed into the floor and let the guitar become my spine.

"Drop it," I command myself.

Developmental Stages

2011-03-01T12:12:00.000-08:00

My friend Lindsey and I once found a book in her parents' collection about child development. With fascination we read about what the 11 year old girl thinks about and feels. I remember being pretty shocked at how accurate it was. And later as a new parent, I read child development books and anxiously tracked my kids' progress - speech, walking, talking, reading - parents kind of obsess about it.

I have been fortunate that my kids reached milestones when they were supposed to and I have not worried about their physical or intellectual abilities. One thing that has worried me is Mary's distaste of music.

I get it that kids aren't supposed to like what their parents like, but Anna does. We did go through a brief period where she couldn't stand Bob Dylan, but after a slow and steady dose, she gained appreciation for him (like continuing to serve peas for dinner). Anna really is more like her dad though in that she leans towards an alternative rock sound. Her first concert was Wilco and R.E.M. at Red Rocks. It has really set the tone for her musical taste. She also has some more modern interests, which she and I share (Eric doesn't like rap or mashup, but I do). I would say that Anna has the most diverse musical taste of the children.

Frank likes more classic rock and roll and he likes it loud. We like to crank up Led Zeppelin, for example. He recently discovered the Beastie Boys and the girls both roll their eyes and complain. "Listen all y'all, it's sabatogue!" he yells at them.

Mary has worried me. She complains about my music a lot - the volume, the instruments, the singing. Mostly it's a volume issue. And she doesn't like lyrics you can't understand or distorted guitar (which might be my favorite instrument sound in the world other than a drum). She loves Simon and Garfunkel, but sheesh, there is only so much Simon and Garfunkel I can take. (Mary actually wrote Paul Simon a letter when she was about 8. She told him how much she likes his "soft" music.) In some ways this is not different than Mary's reaction to the world. Although Mary is loud and prickly, she does not like noise or bright light or fast movement. She has been like that since she was a baby. "Please, please, please turn it down!" she will moan as I turn the volume up on a song I like.

Recently we discovered that Mary likes New Wave - the mellow sounds of The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Joy Division - that soft, synthesizer sound? Yeah, that's Mary's rock.

I am sighing with relief over here as I put "soft" music on her ipod. She asked me to put The Social Network soundtrack on as well. I'll take it. It's Trent Reznor, afterall. Maybe I should add "Pretty Hate Machine?"

Best Picture

2011-02-21T14:37:00.000-08:00

My two favorite Best Pictures were about cutting arms off. How often does that happen?

My thoughts on the Best Picture Nominees -

“Black Swan” - I really enjoyed this movie and thought the story arc was perfect. I was delighted with the actresses in this movie and was disappointed that more of them weren't nominated for their acting. The makeup, costuming and dancing are incredible. Natalie Portman will win best actress.

“The Fighter” - I guess I liked Rocky better. Marky Mark is awesome. I did like the sisters and thought that they did a great job with setting the film in a particular time.

“Inception” - I had no idea what it was about when I went. Blew me away. That scene with Paris folding up? Loved it. Also, this movie freaked me out and has wormed its way into my subconscious. I still have nightmares where Leonardo DiCaprio screams at me to wake up. Too much shooting and action at the end with the snow, etc. Other than that, I loved the movie and thought it was incredibly well done.

“The Kids Are All Right” - I watched this on DVD with Anna. I was disappointed. It was more like a really good TV show, not a movie. The acting was great. I am glad to see a mainstream movie about a lesbian couple and their family that addresses family issues. That doesn't mean it's the Best Picture. Annette Bening is favored to win BA, but I hate those awards which are about careers and not the specific performance. I do like actresses that allow themselves to play unsympathetic characters, but I don't think she'll win.

“The King's Speech” - I saw this with Frank and Anna (my last blog was about that experience). I did not want to see this movie (even less than Toy Story III). That said, I thought it was really moving and beautifully filmed. It has the "Best Picture" feel and I would suggest that this movie will win. Colin Firth will also win Best Actor.

“127 Hours” - I meant to see this movie when it was at The Ross a few months ago (before it was nominated), but I didn't make it to the movie before it left. I actually drove to Omaha in the middle of the day to see this at a google-plex theater because it was the only theater in Nebraska still showing the movie (and it's not out on DVD yet). I loved just about everything about this movie - it is beautiful - huge shots and close ups depending on the feel of the scene. Fast movement contrasted with slow movement contrasted with dream movement. This guy travels a million miles an hour and is forced to slow down - stop - and it is profoundly done. I am glad I saw this on the big screen - they really used the medium and the filming is incredible. The rock should have gotten a nod for best supporting actor. "Thank you."

“The Social Network” - Bill and I watched this on DVD and the kids watched it with me, and then they watched it over, and over, and over. Of all of the nominees, I have seen this movie the most. The kids loved the story and it is well done. I loved the dialogue in this movie. I have read that the script was unusually large and there was concern they would need to cut it, but there are no pauses in this movie. Everyone talks like a policy debater - fast, but also accurate and authentic. I think this movie is masterfully written and should get best adapted screenplay.

“Toy Story 3” - I saw this on DVD with the kids during a blizzard. And they watched it umpteen more times. I loved Toy Story I, I liked Toy Story II and Toy Story III was fine, but not as good as the first one, in my opinion. Rex totally got stiffed on a nomination for best Supporting Actor. He's always been my favorite toy. "We're going to daycare!"

“True Grit” - This is a beautiful movie and it has a great pace. I loved the little girl and hope she wins an Oscar, but she won't. This movie has a "Best Picture" movie feel to it with the costuming and casting and filming. It's a Western though, and I'm just saying, it's gonna be "King's Speech."

“Winter's Bone" - I loved this book and thought they did an incredible job with the film. The main character is a low-income, spunky girl. So of course it was my favorite film. :-) This movie is uncomfortable - the poverty, drugs, guns, and hopelessness are hard to watch. I loved the plethora of animals and the worn out clothes and the chill inside the house. I found this story satisfying in that it is real, but the character does things that most of us would find challenging if not impossible. The story would be very different if she committed her mom, sent the kids to live with relatives and joined the military. Those are the choices I would make, and we haven't even poised me on a boat in a frozen lake with a chainsaw facing a group of women who recently beat the shit out of me.

Saw off your own arm? Or saw off both your father's dead arms? Gah. I am guessing the Academy will be more impressed with a speech.

A Mov(ie)(ing) Story

2011-02-06T11:16:00.000-08:00

Most years I disdain the Oscars. They are not the kind of movies that I like to watch. "Life is Beautiful" is the example I usually give people. I HATE that movie. Hate it. It is manipulative and annoying. Kind of like the Oscars.

This year I was quite taken by the Best Picture nominees and needed to see just a few more to have seen them all. And as my kids get older they are able to see more adult-themed movies with me, which I love. Anna, for example, was my companion at Toy Story I at the age of 3 and also my companion at Toy Story III at the age of 16. She will see anything with me, and we've seen most of the Best Pictures together this year. We went to and discussed "Black Swan" and "Winter's Bone" and "The Kids are Alright." (There are a few she refuses to see - like "True Grit," but I have Bill to see "True Grit" with, so it's all good.) The kids have been quite obsessed with "The Social Network," which they watch over and over again.

Frank and Anna went with me to a late showing of "The King's Speech." We were all three rendered quite speechless by it. As the credits rolled, Frank spoke first. "That was really good." "I liked it too," Anna said. "Me too, and I didn't expect to like it," I said. The conversation continued as we walked to the van. We talked about characters and history and costumes and I thought again, for about the millionth time, how brilliant it is to make little people with your own DNA and someone's DNA that you choose, and then expose them to all the things that you want to expose people to, and then you end up with these younger adults who are like you but not like you and I know that it is not psychologically good to be your kids' friend, but when it comes to stuff like movies, it is not only good, it is great. I have raised children who appreciate movies and stories and want to talk about their experiences, and I love it.

"I wanted to name you Wallis," I said to Anna as we walked.

"Really?!" she said incredulously.

"Yes. I have always been fascinated by that story and think it's kind of a cool name," I explained.

"Why didn't you?" she asked.

"Your dad wouldn't let me," I said.

Her laugh rang through the street.

"What did you want to name me?" Frank asked.

"Well, I thought you were Henry until I met you and then I knew you were Franklin," I said, telling him a story he already knew.

"But what did you want to name me that Dad didn't like?" he asked with a cute little wicked grin.

"Sebastian," I said, knowing that Frank would know where the name came from.

"Se-BASTIAN?!" Anna howled.

"I would have liked that," said Frank. And as he said that I thought of the summer that Frank and I watched the "Brideshead Revisited" miniseries together. The other kids were not interested, and in fact made fun of the show, but Frank loved it as I always have. Frank knew immediately that I was referring to the character from Brideshead.

"I am glad I am Anna," Anna said as she put her arm around my waist.

"And I am glad that I am Frank," Frank said as he put his arm around my waist on the other side.

I am speechless.

What's the Difference Between and Eccentricity and a Bad Habit?

2011-02-06T09:14:00.001-08:00

I have a huge old tub, but it is attached to the wall on one side. In the tub in my head though, I have one of these. (You can click on the link if you want to see the bath rack.)

I got into the habit of reading in the tub when I was in my early teens. In those days a book a day was nothing. If I didn't have much going on I could easily read two books a day. I would read as I walked to and from the library. I would read laying on my back on the merry go round. I would read on the porch swing and at the lake on the beach and on the couch and in bed and, I would read in the tub. It's still one of my favorite places to read.

I will lay in the tub until the water cools. Sometimes I get out, but sometimes I just add more hot water. I am most likely to read in the tub when the weather is cold out. I love a hot, steamy bathroom with a closed door.

I have dropped books in the tub, but it doesn't happen often. And now that I have a Kindle, I take the Kindle in the tub. I put it in a giant ziploc bag when I do that, but I do take it in the tub with me.

Books last me a lot longer these days. I have a job, kids, pets, hobbies, repeat, and I don't have entire days to lounge around reading. I have been reading my February book club book for a couple of weeks now and wanted to finish it Friday night, but fell asleep with a few chapters left to go. Saturday morning I got up, took care of the animals, ran a tub, and finished it before leaving for my morning dance class. The water cooled as I cried over the perfectness of the ending (Major Pettigrew's Last Stand). I was glad to be in the tub so I could put the book aside and think about the ending for a few minutes as I soaked. I held a washcloth to my face, and then pulled myself out of my lukewarm tub, left the steamy bathroom, and rejoined the world.

Parenting Advice

2011-01-17T09:13:00.000-08:00

I am making 100% Whole Wheat bread from my La Leche League cookbook and can't help but remember what now seem like easy days. They are three distinct periods for me - my first baby - so perfect and sweet - my second baby - more challenging and fiesty - my third baby - easy and flexible as I carted him with us to the older kids' activities.

I recall making the decision to quit my job and take a more flexible job. Anna was three at the time and she was in daycare all day. I came home late from work and reheated macaroni and cheese (and seriously, that is the most pathetic meal ever). Anna sang a song to me as I ate and I said, "Where did you learn that song?" She said, "Connie taught it to me," and I did not know who Connie was. I presume it was a new daycare worker - they changed frequently. And I thought, wow, not only is my kid learning songs from people other than me, she is learning songs from people I don't even know.

I made different child care decisions with Mary and Frank. Neither went to daycare before six months. And I worked just part-time so I could be home to nurse them, read books, watch Disney movies, go to the library and bake bread.

The days in those early years mash together. I remember individual events, of course, and I remember traditions that we started together. I made whole wheat bread and it is a general memory, not a specific one because I did it so often. 100% whole wheat bread is hard to make because it takes so much time to get it right. But the time really is in the resting. To make the softest whole wheat bread you need to make a sponge, which is a pre-rising stage which softens the wheat and lets the yeast really go to work. It adds lots of time to the bread making process, but it's flexible time. So if you're at story time at the library, or nursing a baby, or picking someone up at kindergarten, the dough will wait for you through the sponge and several risings.

I don't even remember the last time that I made this bread. It really may be 7 years or more. I make a lot of quick bread these days - cornbread, garlic rolls and biscuits are my kids' favorites these days. But today we are all home and I have time to let dough sit.

"You never hear anyone say that they wish they had spent less time with their children when they were little," a wise, older mother said to me as I had three kids hanging on me. It's the best parenting advice I ever got.

I am thinking back to those days as I make this bread for my now older kids and I smile and feel grateful for the time with them. Children require a sponge stage too.

One Word Commands

2011-01-08T08:20:00.001-08:00

Last night I mopped the kitchen floor and ruefully noted that one advantage of the dropping temperatures is that there won't be muddy paw and shoe prints all over the floor, though I will need to make sure that my gloves are in my coat pockets for easy access when we're headed outside. Stella is four months old now and her two biggest issues are house training and jumping. I work on both issues at the instruction of Lincoln's Dog Boy (At my house we call him Lincoln's Dog Whisperer.). ("It sounds like she does better in class than at home," Bill noted as she jumped on him while I tried to keep her in sit stay.) And it's true. Dog Boy makes it all seem really obvious and easy and I try to mimic him ("results are not typical") at home. We're doing ok.

The sit stay is the key to everything. From the sit stay you prevent the dog from jumping on family or guests, you prevent her from chasing the cats, you prepare her to go outside, or get in the car, or eat her dinner - everything requires the sit stay first. It is about preparing the mind to switch gears, and I love that concept. We all have the tendency to jump and chase cats and shove food in our faces willy nilly. I should sit stay more, I think. And walks. I should get taken on more walks.

The key to house training is frequent trips outside (hence the perpetually muddy paws) and a leash at all times, even in the house. I loop the leash under a chair when I cook or my dresser when I am in my bedroom. It apparently creates a den wherever she is so that she won't soil in that area. The leash in the house has the added advantage of allowing easy correction and direction into a sit stay.

Though I don't have house training issues, per se, the concept appeals to me. Don't make a mess where you are.

Home for the Holidays

2010-12-26T12:33:00.000-08:00

I drove my three kids south in the night while we sang along to the radio. At each stop the kids exercised the puppy, whined for candy, and taught me that that you can now rent movies at the McDonalds Red Box in Kansas and return them at a McDonalds Red Box 400 miles later in Oklahoma.

Oklahoma was colder than I expected. We spent our time indoors and had a perfectly normal Christmas. We watched movies and ate and opened gifts. My son got sick on Christmas Eve while we were at church. We spent waaaaay too much time driving around town trying to find National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on DVD. And on Christmas morning we got up, loaded the van up again, and headed North.

Mary and Frank watched a movie on the DVD player, and Anna read _A Christmas Carol_ aloud to me. I dropped the kids at their Dad's, and came home to Bill. He was mysteriously simmering multiple pans and revealed that he was making seven seafood courses - a traditional Christmas Eve dinner, but I wasn't here on Christmas Eve and we like seafood on any day, so that's how we spent Christmas night.

My stepdaughters don't come until Monday night. Their gifts sit in a pile in my living room. The ham I plan to cook for them the night we celebrate their Christmas sits in the refrigerator.

I do not have Christmas traditions, I have realized, and that is ok. I spent my Christmas Day in a van driving children and a puppy through three states. But add in that my daughter read aloud to me as we watched the soil change from red to brown? That is now my favorite version of the story.

I cling to the Christmas Season, which despite retail attempts to tell you otherwise, are the twelve days AFTER Christmas. My kids will come home, my stepdaughters will arrive, and we will merge into New Year's Eve and a visit by my inlaws. My life does not fit into one day of Christmas, so I am grateful that the season lasts longer than that.

I try to conduct myself with the dignity of a Lollipop Indian Chief. Racist? Probably. But to me he suggests humor and flexibility. He remains proud, though there are lollipops sticking out of his headdress. He's not "from" Oklahoma either, but now it's his home.

God Bless us, Everyone!

Grandma Doris Dates

2010-12-19T19:23:00.000-08:00

There is a fantastic "This American Life" episode that is recorded in the Toys R Us at midnight on Christmas Eve. The reporter interviews a dad who is there to buy "twin dolls" for his 4 year old. He and his wife had already purchased the child's toys, and it included a doll, but that night, on Christmas Eve, the child had repeatedly told him that Santa was bringing her "twin dolls" and so this dad found himself at the Toys R Us on Christmas Eve at midnight trying to make his daughter's Christmas Morning perfect. He had enough insight to recognize the insanity, and yet he bought the dolls anyway.

The father was of course trying to reach the parenting pincale - the Magical Christmas Memory. He was well meaning and even knew that he might be wrong, but he could not resist. He wanted her excited smile on Christmas morning (which would happen anyway), he wanted to see her prefer those twin dolls to all other dolls and insist for a year that they go everywhere with her, and he most especially wanted her to wistfully say when she was an adult, "Oh, dad, do you remember the Christmas I got the twin dolls?" On principle I don't like Christmas, and this is why, but there are Christmas traditions that are meaningful to me - walks in the cold (I like Christmas Eve walks and Christmas morning walks), Midnight Mass, buckeyes (those chocolate covered peanutbutter balls made by my Aunt Mary Jane who included "a bottle of wine" in the list of ingredients when she handed out the recipe - "The wine isn't in the Buckeyes, it's to drink while you make em!" she cackled.), and Grandma Doris Dates.

No one calls them Grandma Doris Dates except my mom and dad and sister, I think. "I found the Grandma Doris Dates," I told my mom on the phone as I talked about my weekend shopping. I put a couple in a cellophane bag for my sister's gift box and packed a whole box of them for my parents to share with us when we go see them next week. When I was a child, my Great Grandma Doris would give a box of Medjool Dates to each of her grandchildren; my aunts and uncles disdained them. My mom knew enough to snatch them up and we would end up with the extra boxes of dates. Once home we would stretch our stash out to last months. We would get the box out after dinner and have one or two a piece. We would line up the pits and put the papers in our mouths to make muppet mouths. We would mourn the last box and the last date and wonder aloud how long it was until the next Christmas. It was our family tradition that just happened.

My Grandma Doris died about 20 years ago and it is the dates that make me think of her fondly every year. She had no idea that she was creating that memory for me; she was just sending a nice gift to her grandkids. It could just have easily been a Russel Stovers chocolate box (but those are easier to find in Nebraska), but it was the kind of dates she had on a trip to California once and liked, and it was a treat for her.

This year I did all of my shopping at small local stores. I appreciated the service and the selection and pace of the stores (no crowds or hysteria) and most especailly I appreciated the relatively easy parking. (I have actually been known to drive to the mall and then leave because I could not deal with the parking lot.) But, the dates came from Trader Joe's and to get to Trader Joe's I had to go to the Mall. That is a different holiday shopping story. Bill drove.

"Where are we going to park?" I wondered aloud as I looked at the ridiculous number of cars circling the lot looking for a spot.

"We're just going to drive to the front row. No one ever thinks to just go there," Bill said.

And in that instant I was reminded of my dad who has a similar philosophy. And sure enough, there was a spot in the front row. And once inside Trader Joe's the first thing I found was Grandma Doris Dates. It was the Christmas Miracle. And the Christmas Memory.

If this were a Hallmark Christmas Special, Grandma Doris would be looking down from Heaven and making sure that I got front row parking to the store that had The Dates. But yeah, I don't believe in stuff like that. I do think that my dad and my husband are right about just going for the front row parking against all odds, and I think that Grandma Doris had great taste in dried fruit and I feel a bit triumphant that I get to share some dates with my parents and my sister who appreciate them the same way I do.

I would send you a medjool date, but you wouldn't appreciate it as much as my sister Kate. I will send you my good will and my sincere wish that you find the magical Christmas Memory that is important to you.

How Did the Team Do?

2010-12-10T05:59:00.000-08:00

(The title is a joke between me and my Dad. My Dad loves me, and when I was in high school he thought I was the best basketball forward/actress/debater to exist, like, ever. (Your Dad probably thought that about you, didn't he? I hope he did.))

I drove Anna to school this morning since she had too much stuff to take on the bus. She has a speech tournament this afternoon and evening. On the way to high school Anna practiced her Humorous Interpretation introduction and I had her do it a couple of times and warned her to slow it down. I observed that I thought she meant "monotonous" rather than "monotone." I suppressed the question, "Did your coach hear your intro? Is that what passes for an intro these days?" and I felt a bit like one of those hysterical football dads who replay their high school football star days through their son's glory. Coaching a speech intro is sort of like throwing a football in the yard. And if I had more testosterone and a greater need to fulfill myself through my child's life then I would storm into the speech coach's office and demand to know why my kid was being allowed to go into competition with a lousy introduction. (I know my kid though and respect the coach a lot and I want to make it clear that I totally put this on my kid who does stuff at the last second and hasn't even practiced her intro for her coach.)

"Slow it down and you'll come home with a trophy," I said.

"Eh," she shrugged.

"Are you a winner? Cause I didn't raise you to be a loser! So get out there and break into finals or I'll break your leg!" I said.

"Mom, you're crazy," she said.

"Well, yeah. Have a great time! Call me when you need a ride home after the tournament."

She flashed a smile at me that is making me smile just thinking about it as I type this. She got her suit and visual aid out of the trunk and started toward the school - a beautiful and confident girl.

I win.

The Ministry of Embarrassing Laughs

2010-12-02T05:15:00.000-08:00

Last night I took Mary and Frank to Spamalot. We didn't have tickets or anything, I just walked in an hour before the show and scooped up some amazing seats just by asking. The kids and I had dinner at Panera and then walked to the show in the bitter cold. Ah. (Seriously, going to the theater in the summer just doesn't seem right some how.)

So my original blog title was going to be "Broadway in Nebraska." We had primo seats in the section where the season ticket holders sit. These are the folks that come to (nearly) every show, even when they aren't familiar with the show. Many of those in our section had never seen Monty Python before (no, really). The couple behind us were a bit surprised by the first half.

"Well that was different," said the husband.

"It's not South Pacific," the wife noted in a disappointed voice.

And then the second half started and Patsy sang "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" with an umbrella tap dance just like in "Singin' in the Rain," and I started laughing and laughing. And apparently it wasn't as funny to everyone else, because I was the only one laughing. And then I could not stop. Everytime I thought I had it under control something else would happen, like the men's chorus came out and joined him with twirling umbrellas and I started laughing again.

Mercifully the scene changed and I was no longer the only person laughing. That scene was really was the only point where other people weren't joining me laughing.

At home after the show I let the dog out, and by the time I got back to the kitchen, Mary and Frank were already telling the story of their mom's embarassing laugh to Bill.

"There was this one part where no one was laughing except for Mom," Frank explained.

"Yeah, it really wasn't that funny, but she just kept laughing and laughing," Mary added.

"And then she stops for a minute and you think she's done and then she starts laughing again," Bill said.

"Yes!" Mary and Frank said.

"And everyone was looking at us!" Mary said.

"Since your mom was laughing so hard," Bill added.

"And she laughs so loud and so weird," Frank said.

"I've been there," Bill said.

They all bonded over my embarassing laugh. Sigh.

"Just remember that the last laugh is on you!"

Noble Puppy

2010-11-22T03:32:00.000-08:00

"Why, a dog, whenever he sees a stranger, is angry; when an acquaintance, he welcomes him, although the one has never done him any harm, nor the other any good. Did this never strike you as curious?" Plato's _Republic._

Plato had apparently never met a Golden Retriever. :-)

Stella moved in on Friday and met cats for the first time. She was very respectful and to my surprise (and relief), they were ok with her. Our first evening was a quiet one at home without the kids and Stella spent it sitting under my chair or laying on the floor right next to me. She happily went outside to pee and came back in to stay as close to me as possible.

She slept that night after a short period of whining. It helped that she was exhausted. I got up in the night to take her outside and as I carried her to the yard her tail thumped against my robe.

I would say that the weekend was a success and I feel a rhythm to things already and that pleases me. We raked leaves yesterday and she took great pleasure in crashing through the leaves and thought that I was great fun.

Her new schedule starts today which includes being in her crate during the day when I am at work and the kids are at school. Stella came from a woman who bred her beloved dog Betsy. Betsy had eight puppies and they were each just a cute as Stella. I met Betsy twice - once when I picked Stella out and once later when I went back to get her. My first meeting of her was when I rang the doorbell and she came to the door with her owner by her side. She was curious and friendly, but completely relaxed. That's the dog I want, I thought. The crowd of puppies that met me later in the house did not behave like their mother. They climbed on my feet and jumped over each other. I worried about taking Stella from her mother and her seven brothers and sisters, but Betsy was fine when we took her puppy with us, and Stella has been fine at our house, which makes me wonder what she remembers. "She's already forgotten her mother and brothers and sisters," my friend observed. I don't know anything about dog memory. I do think that she had enough distractions this weekend and that she will miss her family today after I leave her. Or she'll just sleep. (I am taking short days this week and of course have the Thanksgiving weekend, so it should be a good transition.)

"Guess who can go up the steps?" Mary announced last night. A very pleased Stella stood at her feet wagging her tail.

"Really?" I said.

"Yeah, it took 2 minutes. I just walked up and down the stairs holding a treat," Mary explained.

Dogs train easily and adapt easily. It's why we make them pets. They are guardians. And in my head I picture Stella's Mother, the kind, peaceful guardian of the house and it's what helps me get through the midnight potty trips to the yard. Well, that and the tail wags.

Why I Hate Disneyworld

2010-10-31T07:43:00.000-07:00

After arriving in South Beach, the kids and I immediately changed into swimsuits and hit the beach. They had never seen or swam in the ocean before and they made up for it quickly. They caught on to the rhythm of the waves and experimented with jumping over, crouching under and smashing through waves. They walked and ran on the beach. They exhausted themselves.

We showered, dressed, and went in search of dinner which ended up being a long walk around South Beach looking at stores and people and trying different food (French sandwiches, Italian gelato, sushi, Cuban bread, and fresh fruit were all consumed.) When we got back to the hotel we were exhausted. We took turns using the tiny bathroom and Anna tuned in South Park on TV. (I will note here that it is one of my favorite shows (brilliant), but not suitable for children. I really don't allow my children to watch South Park, but we did end up watching South Park that night. I was tired? We were on vacation?) It was Satan's Birthday (Halloween) and he was having an elaborate party that included a Ferrari cake. Well, he never got a Ferrari cake and he throws a temper tantrum. "I wanted a Ferrari cake!"

We went to sleep. Frank and I got up for sunrise and walked on the beach and then to the store for some breakfast. Frank insisted that his sister liked Total cereal, so I dutifully bought Total cereal. When we got back to the room the girls were still asleep. We coaxed them awake and I began passing out the little individual servings of cereal and Anna said, "Total? I don't like Total." "I'm sorry," I said. "Yech. I didn't know you were getting cereal or I would have told you what kind I wanted." All of a sudden Mary, from her pile of blankets said very clearly in a whiny voice, "I wanted a Ferrari cake!" The tension broke and we all laughed. A theme was born. It was your turn to sit in the back? You didn't get as many conch fritters as everyone else? Someone used your towel to dry off and then left it crumpled in the sand? Someone moved your piece of coral and now you couldn't find it? Someone was bound to whine, "I wanted a Ferrari cake!" It became our theme.

Disney is forced or created memory. It assumes that there is a formula for fun and they cash in on guilt and parental concern that their children have happy vacations that they will "remember forever." It's creepy to buy into the idea that you can "create memories." It's not enough to just go to Disney, you have to make it extra special with extra expensive breakfasts with Cinderella? The created international experience reminds me of the Chicago World's Fair. Which is fine, really, but it is expensive and it does not always work out the way that parents think. Children remember what they remember and we have little control over what that is. Little kids really just want to be with their parents. And while older kids need more entertainment, it is certainly available in more authentic venues. I have driven to the mountains with a teen who would not get out of the van and chose to read a book instead. I dragged that same teen to the ocean and she found herself quite taken with the fish and water. I remember overhearing a father at the Henry Doorly Zoo yelling at his son, "I spent $120 to get into the zoo and you're going to enjoy it! Now let's look at the lions!" and as a parent I felt bad for him. I wanted to laugh. I mean, I have been there even if I haven't said it quite so bluntly.

The theme of vacations is discovered and created by those on them. When money and time become compromised, parents get stressed. We want a return for our money and time, dammit! Enjoy yourself and have happy memories! I prefer themes to be organic and meaningful. We now have an inside joke that works like magic on crabbiness. It is hard not to giggle when your sibling is calling you out on your bad behavior by imitating Satan.

So, to recap, skip Disney and watch Southpark. Lea is a judgmental, superior parent who thinks Disney should be enjoyed but not be endured. If you don't want to go or can't afford to go, then find something else. It really is ok. Your kids will be ok. Let them whine about Disney.

"I wanted a Ferrari cake!"

Customer Service

2010-10-31T07:14:00.001-07:00

Florida Wins.

I don't know what it was exactly - the time of year (late October - not a lot of tourists) or concern about their reputation from the oil spill (the beaches were pristine - not ones that were actually harmed, but there are a lot of misperceptions out there, I think). In some ways it reminded me a bit of my trip to New Orleans in the spring after Hurricane Katrina (that was great customer service, too). I had my kids with me (they were on Fall Break) and the kids were the object of much of our special attention. I think they were a bit of a rarity at this time of year?

From the moment we got our rental car (upgraded to a Mustang convertible by the charming man at National Car Rental who wanted my kids to "travel in style"), we were treated well. "Well don't you all look good," said the woman at the parking garage as we pulled into the Florida sun with the top down.

To my surprise I had no trouble navigating the Miami interstate and highways. We drove along the coast and I found our hotel in South Beach easily.

Even better than Miami was the Keys. We were given beach suggestions by our waitress in Islamorada right down to the mile marker. Those of us driving yielded to pedestrians and bikes at a leisurely pace. No one was in a hurry. We went through a drive thru one night coming back from sunset on the beach and the fast food worker smiled at us as he gave us our Frostys and said, "Having a good vacation?" Seriously?! I usually consider it good service at a drive thru to get a grunt and have the food tossed directly in the car. :-)

Frank found a coconut on the beach and cracked it open with a piece of coral. A man stopped to help him pull it apart finally and suggested that I take Frank to "Ana's" later in the day for a coconut. "$3 and they'll open it for you," he advised me as he gave me brief directions.

The elderly Cuban men at the coffee stand were horrified when they realized that I was behind them and they put their order on hold so I could get my coffee ("Un cafe cubano, por favor.") first. I was charmed. "Gracias." "De nada," I was assured.

I think what I liked the most is that the interaction was perfect. It was genuine and it did not last too long. The man helping Frank with the coconut for example was helpful and polite and went on his way. It was also very consistent throughout Southern Florida. I have traveled across the country and never quite felt this type of hospitality. It felt worth noting.

Arising at 6am

2010-10-30T08:27:00.000-07:00

Earnest Hemingway is one of my son's favorite writers. He picked up _The Old Man and the Sea_ last summer and to my surprise, he read it and enjoyed it. He and his mentor have moved on to a couple of other Hemingway novels and Frank relates stories of fishing and bull fighting and hunting. He grasps what I think is most complicated about Hemingway - the expression inherent in the story that is not specifically stated. While watching Star Trek together one night, Frank observed that Hemingway was similar to a Vulcan - everyone has feelings, but not everyone has to act on them or talk about them.

So when we talked about going to Florida, Frank and I knew that we wanted to go to Hemingway's House, and the girls knew that they did not.

"His writing is simplistic," Anna says. (Her view is actually shared by one of my favorite writers - Nabakov - who commented, "Hemingway writes nice books for boys.")

"He won a Pulitzer Prize," I say.

"You're simplistic!" her brother says.

"Yeah, well, I don't care what prizes he won. I am not going to some stupid museum just because other people think he's a good writer," Anna said.

Mary's objections were a little different. She has political issues with him.

"He was a drunk and killed animals and fish for fun," she said.

"That's true," I say.

"It's a sport!" her brother says.

Ultimately Frank and I set about doing what we wanted our first morning in Key West. Frank and I set the alarm to get up for the sunrise. I sat on the beach while Frank walked and explored as the sun came up. We went back to the hotel for breakfast, checked in with the girls (who were still sleeping) and then went to the Hemingway Home.

We got a little lost and asked for directions from a man on the sidewalk.

"We're looking for Hemingway's?," I said.

"He's not home," the man said in deadpan. And then he told us we were close and redirected us.

The tour really was a highlight for me. Frank and I loved the cats and the pictures of fishing. We enjoyed the stories about Hemingway's relationship with his various women and his children and pets. I think Frank was the most well versed Hemingway fan on the tour. At the end he and the tour guide talked about the pictures in the hallway and the difference between a sail fish and a marlin.

I learned a lot about Hemingway. His home is a small two story home. He arose every morning at 6am to write in his studio. He wrote until lunchtime and then broke to eat and go fishing. He would then go to Happy Hour at Sloppy Joe's. The bar owner teased him that he bought a house next to the lighthouse so he could always find his way home at the end of the night.

We went back to the hotel to find the girls still lounging around. They had eaten breakfast and been to the pool. We cajoled them to join us at the beach.

"Cats?! I didn't know there were cats!" Mary said when she heard about the Hemingway Cats. She suddenly wished she had come with us.

I could have made them, of course. But it was nice to have quiet time with my easiest kid. I will note that the girls were easy at this age, too. 11 is a nice age - adult-like but not teenager snarky.

Teenagers are kind of like toddlers that don't nap. They were in great moods the rest of the day and I credit it to the extra sleep they got that morning. I am proud that each of my kids know enough about Hemingway to have an opinion about him. Even if it is a grumpy teen-aged girl opinion of him. :-)

Antici...pation!

2010-10-24T19:07:00.000-07:00

It's officially a joke now. It's been in The Onion.

Last night I went to The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Joyo. There were 209 people there, which is the largest crowd I have ever seen the movie with. I think of the RHPS in blocks of time.

I saw it at the Westroads Mall in the 80s. We were the only ones with props in those days at the Westroads.

I started going again when I found out about the shadow cast at the Joyo in 2005 or so. You could actually buy a prop kit in the lobby.

I have always been more of a prop person - rice, newspaper, lights, party favors, cards, hotdogs (in the old days at the Westroads before they banned them)...I do have one line that I like and that is at the dinner scene, "What, meatloaf again?!"

They stopped showing RHPS at the Joyo on Saturdays a couple of years ago and decided to run it in October. The response has been phenomenal. They even got a write up in the local paper.

It's not something that everyone understands or embraces. Last night I stopped at the house between a friend's wedding at the midnight show. A few of us decided to hit RHPS after the reception. I toasted bread and looked for rice. Bill shook his head. I could not find rice and ended up bagging quinoa - about 6 bags of it - and made up prop kits for others that might not know to bring stuff. I stopped at Super Saver at 11pm dressed for the show and asked about party favors. "What kind of party are you going to?" asked the amused stocker.

"The Rocky Horror Picture Show," I said.

"I think I have heard of that," he said.

They had party hats. I bought two packs. They didn't have the shaking party favors, so I bought the popping kind.

I showed up at the RHPS by myself and as I walked up to the theater I felt a little self conscious. Everyone was with someone. But then I saw someone I knew and we hugged and got in line. Inside there were more people that I knew. And most importantly, and this is a Rocky Thing, there were people I didn't know.

"You'll need a party hat!" I said as I walked through the theater and handed out hats to people with red "V"s on their cheeks. (I should have bought 10 packs of hats - I had no idea there would be that many people there.) "Do you need a prop kit?" I asked the kids ahead of me as I handed them a trick or treat bucket of newspaper and quinoa, etc.

I sat with some veteran RHPS folks. They knew all the lines. I was grateful that I was able to catch them off guard with some of my props.

"I have rice all over me," Eric said.

"Actually that's quinoa," Justin informed him.

And when I handed out the party poppers they said, "What are these for?"

"Confetti!" I said as Frank and Rocky walked up the stairs to the Wedding March. We popped them and threw the resulting confetti. I think Dr. Frankenfurter would have enjoyed the ceremony.

I gave a ride home to a friend that had never seen RHPS. "I think it would be more fun if I knew what to shout," she said.

"I dunno. I think it should be more organic. If it's going to survive then it needs to change a bit," I said. You know, it's 2010, like, throw quinoa.

I am heartened that the younger generation comes to the show. And I am heartened that some of us still cling to RHPS. It was important to me. It was somewhere to go on a Saturday night. You can go to RHPS and know people and make friends - they are always glad to see you.

I hear that "Glee" is featuring RHPS this week. Several of the kids around me were talking about it. They knew about RHPS without having actually seen it.

I've never seen a single episode of "Glee." I think that makes me a Glee Virgin?

My Child Won't Be Left Behind

2010-10-16T04:15:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking this week about an interview I recently heard with Barack Obama. When asked why his daughters didn't go to a DC public school, and in fact, go to a very elite private school, he was unapologetic. The DC public schools are deplorable and he doesn't want his children there. He also made it clear that they are not ok for any child and he would support changes to improve the schools for all children, but for his children, the solution was clear. They're not going there.

Anna changed high schools this fall and although I supported it personally, I struggled with it politically. I worried that I was giving up on my idea of diversity and exposure and also giving up on the assurance that my strong base of parenting - the countless hours reading picture books and baking and going to the park and the museum - could shepard my child through a less than perfect school environment.

I still agree with that idea. But what I have found for my child at the emotional state that she was in, is that it was harmful for her. And I needed to find her a safer place and did.

Yesterday I visited the new high school to bring her some allergy medicine and as I sat in the nurse's office I observed the kids in the hall outside the office and nurse's station. And the thought came to my head that, these are children who went to the zoo with their parents, not with their daycare or school with its carefully designed curriculum to enrich them in ways that their parents cannot do.

I work with impoverished parents every day and I do not mean this as a criticism at all. I know that there are issues much bigger to survival and that trips to the zoo are not at the top of the list when you are homeless or nearly homeless, when you are addicted to drugs, or have mental health problems. I recently met with a woman not dissimilar from me really except that she had found herself homeless and in charge of her daughter with no money or job. As I sat with her I became aware that her purse was stuffed full of framed family photos. She must have taken them off the wall of the house and put them in her purse. I nearly wept.

I am grateful that we have policy makers and educators who know enough about child development to know that they need enriching experiences, but there is a difference between being read to by a volunteer at your school and being read to by your mom. There just is.

I do think it is possible to remain nonjudgmental and loving and support humanity as a whole while at the same time not sacrificing my kid for the cause. I can't say it as well as President Obama, but in my head it sounds like, I want my kids to be with kids who haven't just been to the zoo, but their parents took them to the zoo.

My Bodyguard

2010-09-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

Apparently my kid was paid a dollar to provide protection to a smaller kid at school.

I responded in an appropriate way - "He's your friend, not a client. You need to give him the dollar back. Is he ok? Are there physical threats of violence?" Concerned Mom asks. I am assured that it is just an 8th grade bully picking on an exceptionally small 6th grader. I am not assured. Where are the grown ups? Why do we even have middle schools? These 6th graders are so little.

In my head I am thinking, A buck?! That's what protection goes for these days? Does that seem low? Is it the Recession?

Also? I feel relief that my kid is not the one being bullied, nor is he the one bullying. I think I would rather deal with the issue of returning the dollar and being a good friend for the principle of it.

Parenting is hard. And we project our own issues onto them no matter how healthy we might think that we are.

Tomorrow I need to call the Dad of the kid who is bullied. I know him and while I don't know a lot about him, I do not think that the bullying will surprise him. I want to make sure that his son is safe. And I want him to know that his son is so scared that he is paying other kids to protect him. That seems significant to me.

The Assistant Principal and Math Teacher want to talk about why my son is always late to his first period class. I could care less.

I am a good mom. And I need to act like I care that my son is usually one minute late to his first period class. I do think there are bigger issues going on at that school and I need to bite my tongue on that one when I nod and assure them that I tell my son how important it is to be on time for class. And then I need to call a Dad to talk to him about something that truly matters that the school cannot help us with.

Steak, Lobster and Chick Peas

2010-09-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

I am at Max's Kansas City tonight listening to the House Band. Which is to say that I went to work, went to parent teacher conferences, picked up Chinese take out (beef lo mein, orange chicken, general tso's and veggie fried rice),dropped a kid off at play practice (she took the lo mein), got the others started on homework, washed the breakfast dishes and initiated my Happy Birthday turn table (thank you, Bill!) with some Velvet Underground. Bill worked late.

I spent part of my day researching electronic notebooks and writing a procedure for paperless (I prefer the term Less Paper) bankruptcy files. My biggest issues are my interview notes and phone contact notes. I upgraded my electronic Post Its. I experimented with electronic bulletin boards and tried to find something visually like what I use but with more sharing potential and less clutter.

I usually listen to my ipod at work - radio, playlists and podcasts. (Though I also have a turntable in my office (my office Lou Reed is limited to "Rock N Roll Animal" since that's one of the six records I keep there.).)

So, a typical work day, parent stuff, take out and dishes. I put on 'The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" while I cleaned up the kitchen, and when Side A ended, I had to dry my hands and walk in the other room and flip the record over.

It is the consciousness of records that I love. I think about the song that ended. I want to hear more. I stop what I am doing and I flip the record. (And if you have something that you loved on vinyl, you know the end of Side A when you get to it even if it's a CD and it just plays through, don't you? :-) )

In a related area of my life, I have become a total convert to the Kindle. Though I have noted that it is also less conscious in some ways. I forget the name of the book I am reading and I have no idea how long it is or how much I have read (though there is a percentage-y thing in the corner). An e-book has a different being than a paper book. It lacks some character, but totally makes up for it in convenience and readability. I like the convenience of being able to download a new book immediately, but I have found that I need some breathing room to digest what I just read.

All of my work research is now done electronically. It's funny to me that we still take "professional" pictures in front of law books, even though we haven't updated the books in years and no one uses them except to take pictures. We recycled a ton of paper recently and got rid of a lot of law books. We kept a shelf of them for a photo backdrop. It seems like we could just photo shop that in...

Later tonight I will head to the studio to dance to my latest play list of Electronic Klezmar Balkin and hip hop/classic rock Mashup. Not available on vinyl. And besides, the needle would skip when I jumped around.

I am really coming to the conclusion that I am the perfect age for all of this - embracing the past and present and future - using them all when needed. (Also, NanoNovel Idea - A Christmas Carol in techno - "A Techno Carol" - Scrooge is visited by a typewriter, a computer and ? or record/cassette/CD/mp3.)

"You can dance if you want to," suggests Lou.

Guts on the Ground

2010-09-01T17:32:00.001-07:00

I was unpacking vegetables from our vegetable share on Monday night when Mary burst in the front door to tell me that Frank had been hit by a truck.

My organic tomatoes were carefully packaged in a plastic box inside a cardboard box with bubble wrap on the sides.

Every parent knows what I mean when I say that I wish my kids could go through the world in a plastic box inside bubble wrap.

I threw the tomatoes on the counter and ran out the front door without shoes. I realized as I pushed the front door open that I did not know where he was. It became clear to me as soon as I got outside. Traffic was stopped in the corner intersection. A small crowd was gathered. I hesitated for just a second. My stomach leaped up and I immediately thought he was dead. Or at least splattered guts. In half a second I prepared myself for that and knew that I just needed to be with him no matter what. I did not know what I would find when I pushed through the crowd of people. What I saw - the only thing I saw - was my son's face. I crouched over him in the street and he put his arms around my neck and said, "Mom?" I knew then that his brain was ok. I forced myself to look at his legs. They looked twisted and bloody. He was pinned beneath his bike which was pinned beneath the truck. I lay over him and held him without moving him and talked to him.

I heard the siren coming and got in the ambulance with him. I could see my husband and my kids and my neighbor. I could not tell you what the driver looked like. I could not see him. Bill brought me my shoes and my purse. Frank and I went to the hospital for xrays and tests. We watched the White Sox beat the Indians. And they bandaged him and sent him home. The police officer helped me piece together what happened. Frank and Mary were on their way home and riding on the right side of the road. A driver turned right and did not see Frank and ran right into him.

No dead boy. No broken bones. No concussion. Some serious road rash. That's it.

Frank's recovery continues to amaze me. He is sore and hobbling, but he is really and truly ok. I think I have post traumatic stress, though. I mean, somehow in this accident Frank came out ok, but my guts were out of my body and on the ground. I am slowly shoving them back in where they belong. I have not been sleeping well. I keep getting up to check on him and make sure that he is breathing. His heavy, codeine-assisted deep sleep breathing is unmistakable. I feel relief and go lay down until I awake suddenly again and have to check on him.

My guts are still on the ground. Eventually I will shove them back in. Until it happens again.

Talk When You Can

2010-08-26T05:49:00.001-07:00

I was in my home office drinking coffee when I heard the front door slam at 6:45am. I knew that it was Anna walking to the bus stop, and I put down my mug and took off after her.

There is major street construction going on in Lincoln, and that means that there are major detours going on. The city bus that usually stops just a half block from our house, now stops about six blocks from our house. The first time she met the bus on the detour, I walked with her and made sure that we had the detour schedule and route correctly and that she made it onto the bus in time to get to school. I discovered that six blocks is the perfect amount of time to spend with a teenager. So every morning I have been leaving with her and walking with her to the bus stop.

I didn't want to miss that time this morning.

"Hey!" I called, as I jogged across the street. She rolled her eyes a bit, but she did take the earbud headphones out and sure enough, a couple of strides into the next block she started talking - about her new friends at school, her classes, and the callbacks for the fall play. I waved goodbye when we got to her stop and I jogged back to the house thinking of all the things that I needed to do - breakfast and bathe and pack lunches for Mary and Frank - but I was very glad that I took the time to do something that I didn't need to do, but in some ways needed to do the most.

This window between child and adult is brief and painful for everyone. I think of her the way I last saw her this morning. Smiling at me over her shoulder and looking away. Putting her music back in her head. Getting on the bus and going away.

12 Cassettes for One Cent

2010-08-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

The first album I ever bought on my own was Michael Jackson's "Thriller." I used my paper route money. I rode my bike to the TG&Y by the mall and bought the record, which I played over and over. Shortly thereafter I subscribed to Columbia House and with the freedom that comes from lots of cheap music, I branched out and tried all kinds of stuff. And I remember the suggestions. "Do you like REM? Then you might like U2," Columbia House suggested. I bought all four of their albums without hearing as much as a sample. I listened to music over and over on my yellow Sony cassette Walkman as I walked around town to the library or school or delivering papers.

Anyway, I thought of those days this morning as I sampled and bought music on itunes. I have a couple of sites that I follow for suggestions and I like it that I can listen to the music before buying it. Sometimes I buy albums, but I have also succumbed to the trend of buying one song or two songs, but not the whole album. And I like it that itunes suggests songs for me. It's a great way to find new music. (Though nothing will ever top the colossal recommendation of U2 since I liked REM. And it's not as if I still listen to their stuff, but it was just important music for me for a long time. It felt like they knew what was in my 15 year old girl in Nebraska's head, like THAT makes sense. I think everyone has one of those life changing band moment things.)

So. Two new play lists came from some new music. One is for hooping and the other is for my new dance class. And in my case, the girl who "likes U2 and REM" turned into a woman who "likes electronic Balkan music." Music recommendation is an art and not a science.

For the Maps

2010-08-13T16:23:00.000-07:00

Years ago I went to a locally produced play in a small venue. The characters were stranded because of car trouble.

"Here, use my AAA membership and call for a tow," one of the characters said.

"Why do you have AAA? You don't have a car and you don't drive."

"It's for the maps," said the first character in total deadpan.

I started laughing so hard I nearly fell out of my chair. I laughed so hard that the actors paused and tried to not react to my reaction. I laughed so hard that the playwright came over at the end of the play and introduced himself.

This summer I have called AAA because I locked the keys in my car and we called AAA when we hit a deer and needed a tow. And when our camping trip plans fell apart from a combination of heat advisory and thunderstorm warnings, I went to AAA for maps. Just as the play referenced, a AAA membership means that you can walk into the AAA office and get free maps to anywhere. "Iowa, Nebraska and South Dakota, please," I said, not knowing where we were going. On a lark we headed North to Lewis and Clark Lake in South Dakota.

"What time do you expect to arrive?" the campground manager asked when I called to reserve a camper cabin.

"Um..." I thought of myself and the four kids driving North with a loaded down car.

We meandered North to South Dakota. I taught the kids to use the AAA Guide to find fun things to do along the way. We stopped to see the John Neihardt Center in Walthill. We stopped to meet the Winnebago on the Reservation and talked about what it means to be a Sovereign Nation. We got ice cream in Fremont at the Zestos of my teen years and toured the May Museum. It was the kind of vacation where we were all happy on the beach so we stayed until dark, and then we couldn't get the campfire to start so we went to a restaurant, and when the restaurant on the lake was closed we went to one in town and found a diner that was open all night. And we were happy. When we stopped at the Winnebago Reservation on the way home and they asked us if we were there for the Jingle Dance Lessons, we said "yes," even though we didn't know about them until we showed up. Mary and Sophia learned how to dance at a pow wow. Frank and I found the Joba Chamberlain Shrine.

It was not a perfect vacation and there were small tantrums, but the success of a vacation is judged in my opinion by the pace and the memories - those, in my opinion, were a success.

We couldn't have done it without the maps.

Dog Days

2010-06-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

I love the seasons. It is one of my favorite things about living in Nebraska. And if I had to pick a season, I would pick summer.

"Hot enough for ya?"

Just about, yeah. I love the heat. I like the sun and the deep down, baked feeling when it is really hot. I like the humid wall of heat that I move through as I walk in between air conditioned places. (It's almost as fun as being warm and cold at the same time. But that's a sensation usually reserved for winter walks with warm torsos and cold extremeties.)

The other fantastic thing about summer is that it's, well, summer. The best part about summer? I am the only person that I have to get up and out of the house in the morning. I can let the kids stay up riding bikes and playing baseball and doing henna tattoos. I can put them to bed without showers.

Of course, my house also gets trashed in the summer, but that's really ok.

Our most widely used room in the summer is actually outside. Our front porch is used for sitting, reading, eating, listening to music, and visiting with each other and with company.

This was one of those days. We are all home from various short trips. The house is full of kids (7 or so?) and they are doing kid things - roasting marshmallows, braiding hair, laying in the rain on the sidewalk...Bill and I are on the porch where we ate dinner with his parents and now sit to visit and listen to music. The porch is noticably cooler than the yard - I think it is the breeze somehow? - and the storm cooled things off nicely.

I want to remember the ease of this afternoon and evening. The intense heat and short but intense summer storm that hit. The happy kids. The grilled food. And the heat. Summer.

Sleeps With the Swallows

2010-06-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Iowa night was darker than usual due to the clouds. I carried a giant flashlight with me as I crossed the yard to the barn.

I thought that it was reasonable to set my tent up in the barn at my friend's farm. The house was full of women visiting for the weekend and I really wanted space to myself. I knew that my tent could not withstand a storm, but I thought the barn would give me the needed protection from the elements. Several of the women questioned my decision and were doubtful. I felt a bit defensive, but began to question myself as they talked about the dark and the hole in the floor and the creatures in the barn. The doubt reared up again as I got to the barn and startled several swallows who began to fly around. The movement was disconcerting, but I thought of myself as a swallow (who was distressed at the intrusion, nothing more) and assured myself that I would be better off once I got to the hay loft where my tent was set up.

As I climbed the ladder, I set off even more swallows in the hay loft who were distressed at my entrance. I crawled into my tent and immediately felt safe and comfortable. I knew that the decision to sleep there was a good one.

My tent has enough room for an air mattress and not much else. It was purchased by my father to backpack in Colorado. The first summer it was used (25 years ago?) it went up the Rockies on my dad's back. We slept on light bedrolls in those days. These days I don't camp without my air mattress. And sheets. I camp with sheets in a hayloft. Good grief, the tent thinks.

I lay in the hot Iowa night listening to the swallows settle down. I settled myself. I gave into the light support of the air mattress and tried to locate the exact spot of the bullfrog by traveling on the sound out the open hayloft door, across the road, to the pond and into the tall grass. I drifted to sleep.

I awoke in the night whent the storm hit - lightening, rain and thunder. The wind made the hay loft door swing back and forth and at one point it slammed shut. I lay still and felt grounded, though I was up high. I felt a part of the storm and nature and time. I searched myself for fear and felt none. I fell back asleep.

What woke me this morning were the swallows. I had no idea that swallows made so much noise. They have a chirping sound followed by a trilling sound. I could tell which of them were talking to each other as I lay and came slowly into consciousness. I gave up trying to sleep as their chatter continued. I unzipped the tent and went in seacrh of coffee in the farm house.

I greeted the women in the yard and house with a smile and nod. I am at a Silent Retreat this weekend. We are not talking or having any unnecessary sound (music, tv, radio, etc.).

Tonight I will sleep again with the swallows. And I might even talk back.

Curb Side Pickup

2010-05-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

Mary, Frank and I gardened today. We planted vegetables, herbs, strawberries and the hanging pots that I like in the front. Mary picked some stunning flowers for the front porch pots. To Frank's dismay, we went to no fewer than three gardening stores to get what we wanted. Frank was already distressed that he missed baseball practice (I don't know if it was canceled or changed location or what, but when we got there, there was no one, so we took Frank on the gardening errands).

We finished our planting at dinnertime and I knew that I was not in the mood to cook. We still had a trip to the batting cages to do, which I had promised. So we drove out to the batting cages and talked about dinner. McDonalds? "I can just have french fries," the vegetarian said. Yech. "How about Greek?" I asked. "Yeah, well, we're kinda not dressed to go in anywhere," Frank noted. He was particularly dirty - a layer of dirt covered all of us, but Frank was the most spectacularly covered.

While the kids hit balls, I sat in the shade with my phone and figured out how to call in our order. They brought it right to the car when we pulled in. Meat gyros for the carnivore and felafel for the vegetarian and her mother. We popped open the boxes as soon as we got home and each scarfed down our sandwiches in a hard earned hunger.

"Great idea, mom," said Mary as she used her tomato slice to wipe up the last of the tzatsiki sauce.

I am glad to have older kids. I actually like McDonalds, but I like felafel more. Drive thru Greek? Mmmmm.

No dishes. I am going to go sit on my porch and enjoy the flowers.

You May Have Your Willpower

2010-05-10T20:00:00.001-07:00

I am thinking about a book reader - a Kindle or a Nook. I have held and used each. I have talked to users and haters and reviewers. I like the immediacy of the new book - the ability to take notes or use Wikipedia - change fonts - have new books without a trip to the bookstore or the library or waiting for UPS to deliver my books from Amazon.

"I'll never love anyone as I love my sisters."

The biggest complaint that readers have of course is that it isn't a book. I love books and surround myself with books and have nostalgic feelings for books. Free ebook of _Little Women?_ Or my Grandma's copy of _Little Women_ from her childhood? I hold her book and think of her as a little girl and me as a little girl and I tear up. No one will do that with my Kindle. But isn't it the words that we really and truly love? And we will love the Kindle. Just not the way we love books.

"I could be as mean as Nellie Olsen. If Ma and Pa would let me."

The Laura Ingalls Wilder books were by far my favorite books growing up. I was very happy to have a daughter so that I could share the books with her. Anna read them, but she didn't love them. Mary was the same way. I was disappointed. I blamed it on animae and Nickelodean. And then Frank read my LIW books (this time by accident - I will say that even feminists adhere to gender roles - why would a boy like a book about a girl?) and loved them. He loves them the same way I did. He reads them over and over and over. He talks about and thinks about Laura and her family. He made a game board with game pieces that are the members of the family. The family moves through Indian Territory on a covered wagon. Would I have thought to have had the books available to him on his Kindle? Probably not. He picked up the physical book all on his own.

"You may have your willpower, Toad, I am going to eat all the cookies."

One of the features of the Kindle that intrigues me is the newspaper delivery to the Kindle. No more newspaper? No more paper carrier? No more sections to shuffle through and cut up and mail to family and friends? No paper at the breakfast table or magazine tucked into my briefcase to read throughout the week? But just think, I could roll over in bed, pick up my Kindle, and read the New York Times without even getting out of bed. I love the immediacy of it. But I would miss the communal paper with my family.

"A bunch of phonies."

Anna's English teacher is (predictably) a Salinger fan and had her class read _Catcher in the Rye._ Anna was critical of it and was heartlessly cruel about her teacher's favorite book. I recommended _Looking Back_, the memoir written by Joyce Maynard when she lived with Salinger. To my delight, Anna enjoyed the book. (It's always been one of my favorites.) I thought that Anna's enjoyment of the book came from the effect it had on her English teacher (the Salinger-phile didn't know about the Maynard relationship and apparently recanted her derision of Anna's Salinger history). But then I found a paragraph on one of Anna's millions of notebooks. She wrote out a paragraph from the Maynard memoir - "We were old not by living life, but from watching it on tv," (I am paraphrasing). Sometimes kids get what you're trying to say, they just won't let you know. They're just a bunch of phonies.

"Goodnight you princes of Maine, you kings of New England."

And the only adult novel I quote is a John Irving novel. :-) The reason is that of the adult books that I own, it is the Irving novels that I read and re-read. I could not even tell you how many times I have read _Son of the Circus_, _Cider House Rules_, _World According to Garp, _Owen Meany_ and _Hotel New Hampshire._ (And in case you care, and need some summer reading, I just listed my top 5 favorite in order.) I will get a reader. I am leaning toward the Kindle. And the weird thing is that I know that I will buy these Irving novels on the Kindle though I already have two or three copies of each in paper. I read them and experience them over and over and look at them from different points of view occasionally.

"Keep passing the open windows."

The Right Direction

2010-04-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Last night Frank got his Arrow of Light Award. It is the highest award in Cub Scouts and means that Frank crossed over and will now be a Boy Scout. Frank and the boys in his den made their own arrows and plaques - they were all different shapes and stains and paints.

The ceremony is a fun one. Older Boy Scouts boys dress in Native American costumes and examine the arrows to make sure that the arrows are straight and well made. Each of the boys was given careful consideration before being allowed to "cross over" and become a Boy Scout. After several of the boys had crossed, the Chief examined an arrow, exclaimed, "Not worthy!" and snapped the arrow in half. The Arrow of Light boys chuckled (they had seen an Arrow of Light ceremony before and knew that the snapped arrow belonged to the Cub Scout Leader and not their friends) but the little Tiger Scouts looked surprised and watched the remaining scouts carefully. All of Frank's fellow Arrow of Light candidates were determined "worthy," and we celebrated with pictures and cake.

The Webelos Ceremony followed the cake and I watched with interest as Frank and the other new Boy Scouts were included in the ceremony and gave the Webelos patch to the new Webelos. The Arrow of Light scouts solemnly shook the hands of the new Webelos. The Arrow of Light Scouts did not need to be reminded to be quiet or to use their right hand to shake and salute. They really have learned reverence and ceremony. I mean, they have learned all kinds of things as their belt loops and pins attest, but what Boy Scouts does best is teach ceremony.

A softball coach once commented to me that if by the end of the season all the girls were running around the bases in the right direction, he was going to consider the season a success. I thought of that as I looked at the squirrely 6 year olds compared to the solemn 11 year olds, and remembered our start in Scouting.

Frank, my youngest, is no longer a Cub Scout. Soon he will no longer be an elementary school student. Next year my kids will all be in middle school and high school. Milestones are tough for parents. They celebrate success and futures, but they also mark the end. You'll note that I am smiling in the picture, but I also felt like my heart was pushing up into my throat. Stupid heart didn't know that it was already outside my body.

Amen and Alleluia

2010-03-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

The choir director and three women came out and warmed up the crowd. We clapped and swayed and sang along. Then the choir came out - resplendent in purple robes - and the congregation went crazy with singing and clapping. The minister didn't even appear until after fifteen minutes of singing and praying. His sermon did not disappoint. I was led through a reading of the King James version of the gospel and then the minister's version of the gospel. "How many times do I have to put up with his crap before I kick him in the tail?" The congregation laughed. We repeated his words and he had us talk to our neighbors and we gave him an "Amen" when he asked for it.

I was surprised to see Bill standing on the end of my pew. "We need to go," he whispered. I gathered my things and followed him out. That's when I learned that I had been in church for two hours.

Bill and Joe spent the morning in Hyde Park while I was in church, but we needed to meet Amanda downtown for tea, so it was time to go.

"Come back next week!" the ushers called after us as we left.

Amen and Alleluia.

Script Frenzy

2010-03-20T08:02:00.000-07:00

Ann and I had an idea for a script years ago. It will be a three actor piece with multi-media backgrounds. We were heavily involved with the Xanga blogging community at the time and our idea was to take three people who know each other in real life (IRL) and who also read each other's blogs and interact on the internet.

Blogs have fascinated me for years. I think the most surprising thing that happened to me was after I invited a good friend of mine to read my blog and she went off on a rant about how the internet is ruining interpersonal communication and friendships and that she would NOT read my blog.

I would note that while she and I have remained friends, she knows less about what is going on in my life than my Internet Friends, most of which I have never met.

I'm in Chicago this weekend and offered to meet Justin, a long time Internet Friend of mine. Justin and I have mailed each other small gifts, we exchange Christmas cards, and really, I know him pretty well. It's reccomended that you meet someone from the Internet for the first time in a safe, public place. That's why I suggested that we meet for church on the South Side of Chicago on Sunday.

But yeah, Ann and I are going to finally write this script! I am going to work on some ideas while I am out and about today and tomorrow. Travel is my muse. I actually think it is the lack of kids/pets/house/job. I mean, it's easy to write when you have the time.

Also, we have a space to do the reading! Some friends and I are creating a creative co-op. The primary purpose is to have a place to dance. I would like to add other performing arts, and I think that this show would be fun to do there.

The Renaissance Award

2010-03-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

"The Renaissance Award recognizes those among us who demonstrate extraordinary amounts of effort and preparation in their solutions or outstanding skill in engineering, design or performance."

As a parent who is sick of participation trophies for 5 year olds who can't pay attention long enough to remember what direction to run around the bases, I am particularly pleased that some kid activities refuse to do that. Destination Imagination is not perfect, but I really appreciate it that awards are reserved for those that deserve them. The different challenges are all judged by specific criteria. Some, like the structure weight and how much it holds, is concrete. Some, like the skit or the approach to the problem, are subjective. And some awards, like the Renaissance Award, are awarded only if the judges decide they should be awarded.

As I heard the announcer read the nomination for The Renaissance Award aloud, I recognized my daughter's team. They have a skit about the bombing of Nagasaki. Mary plays the role of a tree that survives the bombing and advises some school children. The skirt is made of elaborate newspaper loops. They have to remake the top portion of the costume for every performance.

"This costume was just plain cute, but also played a central role in tying the team's skit together. It was clear that much time and effort had been spent on both design and construction. The team used this costume to schowcase much of their research."

I watched the kids react as they too recognized their creation. They bounded forward to accept their special award.

The team did not do so well overall. After an impressive structure and skit performance, they fell apart in the Instant Challenge portion of the competition (they get a problem, tools, and a short period of time to solve the problem under the scrutiny of judges) and placed fourth overall. They still qualified for State and they have already begun talking about how they can improve their team skills so that their Instant Challenge doesn't impede their overall score.

"I want to make the skirt even bigger!" Mary exclaimed. "And make something for my head!" She turned the skirt upside down and the loops of newspaper fell over her face. They all laughed.

It is said too often, but I really do feel it is true about this activity, the benefit is in the process, not the result. But the awards are nice, too. ;-)

A Blog About Blogging

2010-03-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

I am in Chicago in my brother and sister in law's condo. My brother in law had some errands. My sister in law had a meeting. My husband is sleeping. In other words, I AM ALONE! :-) I am sitting on the couch with an afghan that matches the decor and a cup of coffee with the blinds open. It is snowing.

This is how I picture myself when I write - cozy, quiet, everything is clean (and seriously, everything matches! I love this home and I want to live here, but then I remember that I have a giant monstrosity of my own filled to the brim with kids and that is wonderful, too). I do think that the best vacation for a mom is this, though. Quiet and clean and matching dishes.

I have had a few blogs rattling around in my head and I am going to crank them out while I have time and quiet and coffee.

Last night we landed at 7:30 and we were whisked to a Greek resturant in the back of a bar with a cave ceiling. "The show starts at 8," Joe said mysteriously. "You're here for Elvis?" a waitress said as we walked through the kitchen. I joined in the conga line of Elvis trailed by women. We went out the back door and down the sidewalk and then through the bar and kitchen before making it back to the restaurant for the finale. Oh Chicago, how much I love you. On the agenda today is lunch in Chinatown, a tour of the public housing buildings from "Good Times," and then a trip to the Hancock Building where there is a bar that reportedly has a view just as good as the Sears Tower without the fee.

I wanted to add pictures to the blogs I am about to write, but I don't have my camera cord with (though I have all kinds of cords). I guess not everything is perfect today.

Simple Bean Recipe

2010-03-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

I thought that black beans and rice was the easiest dinner ever. But lately I have been into polenta and black beans. I make a 9x13 pan of polenta. The in a sauce pan I heat up a can of black beans with a jar of salsa. Cut the polenta in wedges and top with beans/salsa. Delicious! Frank thinks the polenta is mashed potatoes.

The Berlin Wall

2010-03-06T19:44:00.000-08:00

On Thursday night, Anna and I went to a therapy session and then stopped at the Home Depot to buy power tools. We added a carpet, a mirror and a bathroom cabinet to the cart.

I was grinning as I sawed that damn bed frame down. For months it has eluded us all as we tried half heartedly to get the bed out of the room that Anna claimed after her step sister abandoned it. The loft bed frame would not fit through the door. The bolts spun in place as we twisted them. So for months Anna slept under it - the bed frame looming over the mattress on the floor like a metaphor. I mean, it WAS a metaphor.

Until I physically and metaphorically cut it down. I was gleeful as I pulled the legs out from under the bed and we sat the platform on the floor. Anna spread the sheet and comforter over the mattress and we noted how much brighter the room is this way. We carried the loft bed legs to the trash. The bed - and the room - and the relationship with my kid - and the whole Thing in some ways - is on the ground now.

I thought of the Berlin Wall. I was celebrating as I tossed that damn bedframe in the alley. I felt set free. But, like East Germany, the rebuilding has just begun here. There are structural problems that require intense work. It is too delicate for power tools, but the power tools had to come first.

Too Many Notes

2010-02-28T18:45:00.000-08:00

It was not their first opera, but it was their first opera at the Orpheum and it was really special to me. I was crying before the opera even began.

It was a complicated morning - picking up the girls from their dad and Frank from Boy Scout Camp and getting them all dressed for the opera and making it to Omaha by noon. (It was actually more like 12:30 by the time we got to the restaurant where we met our friends.) I dropped them off at the front door while I parked and managed to get the last spot in the lot one block from the Orpheum. I cruised through the door as they were closing them. I scurried to Orchestra C (ORCHESTRA! BEST SEATS I HAVE EVER HAD!!!!!) and saw the backs of their heads. I teared up.

We talked about it on the way to the car. The same silly miscommunications and games that still show them selves in TV sitcoms. The kids and I went up into the balcony to see the forte piano in the orchestra pit. We talked about the music and singing and Italian.

"I think it had too many notes," Frank said wryly. We all laughed. (That's the review that the Emporer gives Mozart in the movie "Amadeus.")

My kids and I have inside jokes about opera.

Life is good.

And a Dorothy Hamill Haircut

2010-02-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine recently observed that her kids will not be Olympic Athletes. Thay have not had the early chidlhood lessons needed to be figure skating champions, for example. She is not willing to make the sacrifices that Olympic atheletes in training parents make (or at least the ones that they tell stories about).

There has been a shift in my generation as we lose touch with ourselves and focus everything on the kids. I was at a soccer game with a like-minded mom friend once who commented that she doesn't remember her parents following her around to her activities, she followed them. She would hang out at the bowling alley while her parents bowled, for example. Her parents didn't arrange play dates for her, they took her along to their friends' house so the adults could play cards and the kids were shoved together out of convenience, not out of planning.

My kids all went to a really nice school in a really nice neighborhood with a bunch of parents who need to get a life. ;-)

I am on my second high school kid now and it is painful. I realize now that you get a break from preschool through middle school. High school is where your heart aches and you lay awake at night worrying about them. It feels a bit like when she was a baby. In some ways she is more work now. It is also where you start to let go. And I realize that it is on purpose. I am shoved away and blocked out and we separate out of necessity. She is preparing both of us to be separate people. I don't plan her playdates anymore.

I am not a huge fan of the Winter Olympics. I turned the Olympics on this week while I was folding laundry. Slowly the kids gravitated to me. They talked to me. Even the teen.

We talked about the Turkish skater whose parents gave up their jobs and lives in Turkey to move to Canada to help their daughter train. There are a LOT of stories like that lately when it comes to the Olympics. I don't remember it always being that way. I am not sure if it is the times we live in or just my perspective as a parent. I talked to them about the Cold War and the Soviet Union. I described a government that tested and evaluated children from an early age to determine aptitude. Athletes, dancers, academics - were routed and trained and raised differertly. (And incidentally, did I make all of this up? Is it just Cold War Lore?) The kids were fascinated. We had a great conversation about talent and the role of the government and the role of parents.

Earlier in the week I had a terse conversation about the life long consequences of bad chocies with the teen. I talked with her about my hopes for her. (They do not include Olympic Gold. We're focusing a little lower here.) What I realized the night that we all gathered around the laundry baskets and watched cross country skiing and bobsledding, is that what I want most of all is to have a relationship with my kids. I want them to love me and think about me and hang out with me. We try and make that happen by bringing fruit snacks to soccer practice and painting sets at the high school and standing in the rain at endless sporting events. Can't the government just take care of this parenting thing for me?

The Grocery List

2010-02-10T06:20:00.000-08:00

One morning, not long after I had moved into my first apartment, I used the last of the milk at breakfast. I threw the half gallon container away, and left for class. When I came home from work that evening I opened the frig to get something to eat and there was no milk to drink with my sandwich.

That realization hit me in the chest and traveled to my legs and feet. I was unable to move for several minutes. If I run out of milk, I need to buy more milk, or there isn't any milk. Obvious, right? Except that I had at that point spent my entire life with parents who made sure that if we ran out of milk, that there was more milk in the frig next time I went to get it. Oh the magic of being a child with parents who provide for your basic needs! I knew on some level that I was out of milk and that I needed to buy milk, but the shift from child to adult had not fully occured until the moment that I realized my responsibility for myself.

I am feeling some similar feelings now as I leave a home of a different kind. And there are so many similarities - the awareness of all parties that it is time to leave home, but the pain that goes along with that - the missing what wasn't working or fitting for you right now, which doesn't quite make sense. When I left my parents' home, it was time, but it's an emotional process and practical process to leave home.

I've left home and I need to remember to buy the milk. But? I can buy any brand or kind I want to buy. Or I can choose to drink juice instead of milk. Responsibility, but choice. That's the upside of moving out on your own.

Johnson Brothers Dishes

2010-01-26T20:23:00.001-08:00

My grandmother turned ninety years old. We gathered to celebrate her birthday and shared stories of family dogs and ballet recitals and vacation cabins and dresses sewn and events attended and meals eaten. On and on and on. Four generations of family together for a weekend. The memories flowed. Even as the weekend went on we wondered aloud what the kids would remember of the weekend and of their great grandmother.

Memory, not what happens, but what we remember happens, fascinates me. I think about it nearly every day.

I took a class called "Philosophy of History" once where we discussed this phenomenon. How can you be completely neutral? Even a camera captures moments and a video is boring unless it is edited.

I think of a friend who lost her boyfriend in a tragic accident this summer. They knew each other a finite amount of time. She remembers the moment they met and she remembers the moment he died. It seems that with a more manageable amount of time you can recreate your time with that person. And yet even then, are you creating your experience of them? Does it matter? Why are you doing it in the first place?

I shared with my friend an idea that I think a character in one of my novels with experiment with. In my book, a mother kills her 8 year old son in a car accident. She creates logs of every day of his life and tries to recall a memory for each of those days. It seems doable and overwhelming at the same time. Of course she can't do it. Some days have many memories and others are blank and some have events with question marks because she doesn't recall the exact date.

In a book I just read, the main character does something similar. He creates a museum filled with the memories of a relationship - cigarette butts and jewelry and cologne and salt shakers and quince graters. He desperately tries to make something important to everyone because it was important to him.

It reminds me of Pioneer Village, which reminds me of my grandmother in so many ways.

She took me there repeatedly as a child. It's close to her house and we would go wander through the exhibits of a compulsive collector. The entire development of the phone, for example - captured in a wall display that you can walk past and see the entire history. Grams would share stories of her own childhood in Omaha in the Depression and we once found the car that she remembered from her childhood with roll down plastic shades to keep out the rain. So I remember what she remembered and told me about. I remembered a story about a childhood birthday party of hers that I got wrong. It was the Omaha Athletic Club, we both remembered that, and she ate a great delicacy that she did not order, but enjoyed a great deal. We agreed about the basics, but not the details. I remembered her story slightly incorrectly. Like a version of the Telephone Game.

History and memory are complicated.

My mother recently took my Fiestaware dishes in exchange for her dishes. She worried that I regretted the decision. I do not. I love the Johnson Brothers stoneware with the familiar blue flower. I know the plates and canisters and bowls. They are my childhood.

The existentialist in me scoffs at the idea that stoneware is important. Maybe it is not important per se, but it is an anchor to memory and feeling. Just ask my daughter who was distraught that I traded the dishes of her childhood for the dishes of my childhood!

I won't get it right, but I will keep trying. And dishes? Mean something. Just ask my Grams. She made me go through the dishes display at Pioneer Village every time we went!

Cat Woman

2010-01-19T19:59:00.000-08:00

I swore that I would not be That Kind of Pet owner. Not just not the kind who talks baby talk and refers to myself as "mommy" to my "baby," but not the kind of pet owner who took extreme measures to preserve the life of an animal which has a short life span and is easily replaceable. I don't mean that cavalierly, but in reality, there are millions of unwanted cats and dogs put to sleep every year, so part of my pet health philosophy has been that I will give my pets a happy and healthy life (without letting them sleep with me or lick my plate or get called 'baby') and when their health declines, I will have them put to sleep humanely, and replace them with what would be an unwanted pet so I can repeat the cycle.

And then Jake got diabetes. And Jake isn't really my cat, he's Mary's cat.

I once had a vet (who I stopped seeing after this particular visit) who tried to talk me into getting some procedure done for my ancient shih tzu Maggie. "She can't advocate for herself, so I have to," he said. That really pissed me off. Who loved Maggie more than me? No one. I paid my bill, left his office, and never went back. Maggie lived another seven years without his stupid procedure.

Unlike having a greedy little vet advocate for him, Jake enlisted Mary's help. And hers are not hollow pleas of mercy, hers are research about the cost of insulin and pledges to help with his twice daily insulin shots. She recruited the neighbor, who is our usual cat sitter. Between them they convinced me that they, that we, could and should treat Jake's diabetes with insulin.

He's lost almost six pounds in the last two months. His bony hips sway as he makes his way to the extra water dish we set out. His litter box use is out of control and affecting the other cat's use of the litter box. Jake's meows pitifully as he hangs slackly in Mary's arms as she frets about his weight.

We tried modifying his diet, but he has continued to lose weight. His dandruff, aggravated by the diabetes, became too much for him to handle and Mary groomed him regularly.

So I found myself at the vet's office with Mary and her friend the cat sitter. The cat sitter is essential, because with this decision, we now have a cat who needs medical treatment every twelve hours. So we all learned how to inject insulin into the cat. We practiced with saline. Jake lay mutely on the table as we stuck him over and over. (He is the sweetest and most patient cat I have ever known - another point in his favor. I would not consider sticking Paco the Cat with a needle twice a day.) The practice and information became too much for the cat sitter and she had to go lie down because she felt faint.

"Are you going to be ok doing this when we're out of town?" I asked.

"I will if I have to to help Jake," the little fourteen year old girl said earnestly.

I am surrounded by advocates for this cat and somehow I have convinced myself that twelve hour insulin injections for a cat somehow make sense.

The vet is ok with any decision that I make. She made that clear when she diagnosed him. That's why I trust her and why I continue to take the pets there.

The receptionist referred to me as "Jake's Mommy" when we checked in and I did not correct her. I think that's ok as long as I don't refer to myself as mommy, right? Sigh.

Good grief. There's cat insulin and a syringe in my frig. Who am I if not Cat Woman?

Gratuity Added

2010-01-17T20:07:00.001-08:00

I remember the first time I ever ordered room service. I was pregnant. I was on a business trip with Anna who was three years old. I had hearings that day in North Platte and I brought Anna along with me for the trip. (She was going to a daycare while I went to work.)

So I was in a hotel room with a toddler and hungry and needing to get ready and get her ready. I saw the room service menu, immediately dismissed it, and then returned to the menu again. I stayed in hotels with my parents as a child and always read the room service menu but knew that it was too expensive and not necessary. I made a different decision that morning in North Platte. I picked up the phone, I ordered french toast and eggs, which were absolutely perfect. I remember the wonder of the crispy bacon and perfectly cooked french toast and little bitty syrup pitcher. It was like we were at home in that we did not have to deal with a restaurant first thing in the morning. I could drink my coffee and do my hair. Anna could watch "Arthur" and eat eggs with her fingers.

My love affair with room service began.

It's not like I get it every time, but I try to have room service at least once on a business trip and at least once on a trip with Bill. I have had room service dinners when I am traveling by myself, and I have to say that I think room service is at its best at breakfast. Eggs, toast and bacon. I pay extra for orange juice. I splurge on the large pot of coffee.

We had a weekend to ourselves and got a hotel room in Omaha and went out to eat and played Scrabble in a coffee shop and went to a movie. We also, at my great pleasure, ordered room service breakfast. It was not a break from the snow and ice (Omaha seemed to have it worse than us), but it was a break from our house and the kids and the pets and the stuff you do or feel like you have to do when you are home.

My talisman from this trip is a wee little Tabasco bottle that came on the room service tray as a potential condiment for my eggs. I cooed and put it in my purse. It is sitting next to me on my bedside table at home and reminding me that good things sometimes come in small packages as compliments to overpriced food with automatically added gratutity and service fees.

Happiness is a Warm Pie

2010-01-07T20:32:00.000-08:00

On today, the Second Snow Day, we hauled the Christmas tree out of the dining room. I emailed my office and canceled appointments. The kids and I hauled the garbage bags of moldy things from the basement storage space (the mold I discovered when I got the Christmas decorations out) to the alley. We had marching bands, ski jumping and tight rope walking in the living room. (We got a Wii Fit for Christmas. The trash hauling is not yet a balance board activity.).

On tonight, the Second Snow Night, the kids repeatedly checked the LPS website for a Friday cancellation, and my nerves frayed.

I can't tell you what it is about them exactly. They have actually been model children. Kind of helpful. No real fights. Part of it is no doubt my own cabin fever that has no outlet but for Wii Fit Kung Fu (which is actually really fun). But the voices are elevated - the shrieking and chasing and the giggling are making me nuts.

LPS ends its semester in January. Each of the kids has a big project that was due this week. They've been on the phone with their project partners. There has actually been much sighing and concern expressed about how all of this is going to work with all these snow days. More on Anna's mind is that it's the Nebraska Thespian Convention tomorrow. Anna, the child happiest about staying home from school, was anxious for school to stay open Friday so that I could call her in as excused, so she could go to her convention.

The kids know the drill at this point. By 7pm they are poised, waiting for the phone to ring and the automated LPS Voice to tell me that due to weather conditions that school is canceled. The Drama Queen was distraught when The Call came, but there were squeals soon after when she confirmed that yes, the convention will go on, and most importantly, she will get to deliver her monologue in the competition.

The kids piled into bed with me to watch "Mad Men." It's probably not child appropriate, but it's what I wanted/needed to watch on this night before the Third Snow Day, and the kids wanted to hang out with me. "There's no naked people, are there?" Frank asked with concern. "No. No deliberately naked people," I assured him.

The timer went off and I pulled the apple pie from the oven. We ate warm pie snuggled beneath afghans.

Tomorrow is the Third Snow Day.

Christmas Wishes

2009-12-26T15:54:00.000-08:00

Who knew that a tent and sleeping bags could be so much fun in December? The kids set their tent up in the attic after they opened it Christmas morning, laid out their sleeping bags, books, snacks and lamps, and they were set.

Frank patrols the halls with his Nerf dart gun and sets up shooting targets all over the house. This morning the bathroom door was a target. I was trying to take a relaxing tub. Thunk thunk thunk. He whistles as he aims like a sharpshooter. "Or a serial killer," Bill says. Thanks for making me feel better about buying a toy gun for my son, Bill! :-)

Yesterday as I was carving the turkey and preparing to serve a full meal on the dining room table covered in a tablecloth with napkins and Christmas Fiestaware, I realized that I was still in my pajamas. I thought about changing, but then I noticed that the kids were also still in pajamas, Christmas socks and stocking hats (though Sophia favored a fabric book cover). This is us this year, I thought, and we sat down to a formal meal in pajamas and hats and with one Nerf gun sitting alongside a place setting.

It is sad that Grandparents have not been visited, nor have they been able to visit. I am guilty in my happiness and pleasure at being snowbound. This really has been a wonderful Christmas and I could not have wished for a better couple of days with the kiddos. I am almost sad at the thought of snowplows and cleared streets and my real life coming back sooner than I want - namely, end of year files to close and a report I need to write at work. I have been blissfully unaware of road conditions because once the decision was made to stay home, I didn't care.

It has reminded me a bit of the blizzards in the Sandhills with drifts as tall as my head right next to bare ground. If I didn't already feel Pioneer-Enough, the loss of water and electricity sure made the experience authentic. We would huddle around the wood stove and hope that Marion Lee would come careening out of the storm in his truck to take us to his ranch for Margaret Lee's potato soup.That's what I remember - huddling in a sleeping bag around the woodstove reading a book, the flash of Marion's truck lights as he pulled in, and that amazing soup of Margaret's - I had never had anything so good.

I made corn chowder tonight without potato. Bill and I joked about who would walk to the store for potatoes and stayed put in our warm kitchen. Then we used liquid hand soap in place of dish soap since we're out of that too.

We're at our limit for being snowed in, I think. I mean, we may look hearty with our winter tent camping, but although the attic is cold, it's not as cold as outside.

(Video taken December 25th during the Christmas Blizzard of 2009.)

Deck the Halls With Christmas Javelinas

2009-12-22T18:22:00.000-08:00

I am not a fan of Christmas. I have been consciously avoiding the holiday as much as possible for the last nine years.

Something happened this year as Christmas grew near. I agreed to a Christmas tree - the first in nine years - and we ended up with a gloriously huge frasier fir that takes up half the dining room and touches the ceiling. I decided to make cookies and today I made dozens of peanut butter blossoms, dozens of sugar cookies, almond bark snowman things, and two batches of gingerbread. The kids helped decorate and were delighted that I gave them free reign - zombie snowmen and erratically decorated gingerbread - I let them have at it. The pile of candy left over after decorating gingerbread is insane. The kids played hide and seek and helped me with cookies and are now watching "Elf." They are happy.

As I prepared for the Christmas of the Century, I read through old cookie recipes and looked for craft ideas (we're making the ornaments on the tree - fruit and popcorn and paper chains). I found a four page recipe and description for a gingerbread house that I cut out of a magazine in 1996. I decided that this year I am making it. I actually made two batches of dough today - the kids made one dimensional houses covered in icing and candy. I carefully made the templates for my 3-D house and baked the pieces. I put the walls together. Tomorrow the roof goes on. It's a three day process, I learned when I read the recipe. Maybe that is why I have never made it before?

It's a combination of domestic/Christmas bug that has gotten to me this year. Part of it is that Bill's kids are here for over a week, my kids are out of school all week, and I took the time off from work to be at home with them. I have the time to do stuff like string popcorn and make gingerbread houses. And make Gingerbread Javelinas to hang on my tree.

"What are these?!" Sophia says in that Lea-You're-Crazy Voice.

"Traditional Christmas Javelinas, made with my javelina cookie cutter," I say.

"What?!"

"Javelinas," I say as I string ribbon through the hole in the top of the cookie.

"My mom has a thing for javelinas," Mary says knowingly.

"What is a javelina?!" Sophie asks again.

"It's these cookies that I am hanging on the tree," I say.

"Aaaagh!" Sophia says, and laughs.

In reality I am clinging to the Christmas Javelina. He is keeping me from completely crossing the line to Christmas Insanity. The Javelina keeps me true to myself. At least that is what I tell myself.

A Re-run From August 31, 2005

2009-12-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

"It's surreal," said the woman on the radio talking about the devestation of her home due to the hurricane.

In the back seat a little black kitten sat in a cat carrier next to the birthday girl who was smiling and giggling in a charming way. She's been begging for a pet for months.

We were listening to the news as we drove home from Beatrice where we went to an animal shelter that was overrun with cats and was running a "special." Instead of the usual $100, the adoption fee was $35. They just wanted the cats to go to a good home. I emailed the application yesterday and got interviewed last night. We got ok'd.

So despite the cost of gas, we made a road trip.

We visited the shelter and met about thirty kittens. Then we headed down the street to a "foster" home which is really the plumbing shop.

Only in a small town would a place like this exist.

We met another twenty kittens and the foster mom / plumber.

"I can't decide!" squealed my daughter as a tiger kitten lept onto her shoulder, a black kitten with white socks snuggled in her arms and three orange tabbies circles her legs.

"Ooh! She's so pretty!" she exclaimed as a tortise shell kitten curled up on a cushion.

We narrowed down our choices and she asked, "Where did he come from?" She was holding a black kitten who snuggled into her patiently and was quiet.

The parent in me felt impatient. Sheesh. It's a shelter. It's an abandoned cat. Some idiot didn't spay or neuter their cat.

"He and his sisters were abandoned on the road in a box," the foster cat mom explained. "It was one of those hundred degree days and when we got them they weren't in the best of shape. One of his sisters didn't make it. The other sister got adopted. She was sweet just like him," she explained.

This cat is a cuddler. And I knew that my daughter was looking for a pet to haul around - to carry and pet and talk to. She's just that kind of kid.

"His name is Jake? Can I change his name?"

"You can change it to whatever you like. I named him Jake after one of my favorite cats. I lost him - he died. His personality reminded me of my Jake," she explained.

"I think I will keep his name as Jake," said my daughter.

So we took Jake home. And on the highway North we listened to NPR and the interviews of those who survived the hurricane. We listened to the observation that it was surreal. I felt a bit guilty about our happiness. I felt funny about being smug rescuing a kitten that had almost died in the hot Nebraska summer because someone abandoned him in such a cruel way. Why does it matter? What is a stupid kitten compared to the human life that was taken today in cruel and senseless ways? You can mire in hopelessness. You really can. It would be oh so easy for me. I seem to be prone to it.

I felt happy and sad at the same time in that car as I listened to tragedy on the radio and giggles in the backseat.

It is all life. The tragedy - big and small scale - and the giggles.

It was surreal.

Sunday

2009-12-07T19:20:00.000-08:00

I sat behind Perfect Girl with her Perfect Family at the band concert. I've actually known her since high school. She is thin and blond. She was a cheerleader. She grew up and is still thin and blond. She married a good looking blond man, and, guess what? They have three blond, great looking kids. Their clothes are always perfect looking and clean. They look like a J Crew catalog. Healthy and perfect, but not too formal.

They're all very nice. She's always been nice to me. And I always feel weird and awkward and self conscious. Tonight for example, when she greeted me, I felt very aware suddenly of my spider web hose and my feathered hair clip as I sat there reading the NYT Book Review in the middle of the grade school gym. How pretentious I am! I suddenly wished that I had changed into jeans and taken my hair clip out and sat there patiently while I waited for the concert. She smiles like she doesn't notice.

I thought of her after the band concert after I pulled over to investigate the thumping sound and discovered that I had a (frozen) flat tire. Shortly after that I discovered that I did not have my cell phone. (Oh yeah, I left it in my briefcase at work.) My 10 year old crouched next to me in the dark as the snow came down.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

"We're going to change the tire," I said.

I opened the trunk and moved the box of dance costume pieces and the pair of shoes someone left and the pile of books and pulled out the spare tire. I was relieved to find both the jack and the tire iron.

My son watched me raptly and crouched down to help.

I had difficulty loosening the bolts in the cold and it was at that minute that I thought again of my high school classmate. I bet B has never gotten a flat tire on her shitty old car in a snow storm on a night when she forgot her cellphone. That shit just happens to me because I am a screw up.

"So a cowboy rides into town on Sunday and three days later he rides out, also on Sunday. How is that possible?" Frank asked.

I looked over at my son with the street light behind him - the snow flakes standing out in the light.

"His horse's name was Sunday," I said after a minute.

"Yes!" he said. And then, "Made ya smile! I knew that you like corny jokes."

I tried the bolts again, this time smiling, and to my great pleasure, I felt the bolt slip. I knew suddenly that we were going to be ok. That the bolts would come off, the spare would go on, and we would get home. Frank and I could do this.

I drove home in my perfect old car to my perfect old house in the perfect snow storm with my extremely perfect kid.

Why was the snowman's dog called 'Frost?'

Cause Frost bites!

Back in the Day

2009-11-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

When my parents went out to a party or other event, I got to have fishsticks for dinner. And sometimes I got a pot pie. I remember peering in the oven door at the baking pot pie.

We didn't have a microwave until sometime in the late 80s. My parents were more enamored with the toaster oven as I recall. (Who has a toaster oven these days?!) I do remember my Grandma's microwave. It was actually one of the first microwaves I ever saw. I think maybe it was the late 70s?

Now of course everyone has a microwave. You can cook fishsticks AND pot pies in them. Dorm rooms and office break rooms and even my daughter's high school cafeteria have microwaves. My kids grew up making potpies and fishsticks in the microwave.

We joke about my oldest's cooking skills. It's not a lack of cooking skill as much as it is a lack of patience for reading instructions. I have seen the poor dear mess up making instant oatmeal because she can't be bothered to measure the boiling water (love you, Anna!). I once found her friend standing next to the microwave with a concerned look on his face. "Anna said to microwave these?" he said, holding out the box of "Toaster Streudel." I sighed. "I'll show you where the toaster is," I said. "Thank you!" he said in relief.

And then there are the younger two kiddos who love to cook. They make excellent sous chefs helping me prepare dinner and reading recipes - even modifying them successfully. And when it comes to microwaves, their expertise surpasses mine.

I discovered them with food thermometer stuck in a pot pie the other afternoon.

"What are you doing?!" I screeched. All I could think about was the mess and the unnecessary game playing with cooking utensils.

"We're checking the temperature, Mom," they said. And they held out the box to show me that there is indeed a reccomended temperature on the microwave instructions. Internal food temperature needs to reach 165 degrees F as measured by a food thermometer in several spots. It's right on the box. And in fact, after the microwave instructions, there is a reccomended food temperature on most of the frozen food in my freezer. I had no idea.

Back in the day, there was no reccomended food temperature. My mom would put them in the oven while she finished getting ready and when the sitter got there I would be blowing on the steaming hot pot pie insides that would burn your tongue. I never thought to take its temperature when it was cooked in the oven.

First First Friday

2009-11-06T04:41:00.000-08:00

I picked Anna up from the Arts and Humanities school during "studio time" last week. When you walk in you're in a giant classroom with multiple open levels and lots of light. There is a kiln in the corner and an honest to goodness darkroom. There are easels and drafting tables covered with art projects. The kids were painting/weaving/cutting or milling around giving feedback to each other. One kid sat at the front desk with his feet on the desk as he played the guitar. Anna was working on a giant canvas that she stretched herself. Not only did she have to put away her paints, she had to pick up her pistachio nut shells.

My kid gets credit for all this? I thought to myself with concern and envy.

They do have traditional classes too - it's not always studio time. She's taking an AP government class and Algebra at Arts. She takes Spanish and biology over at her home school first thing in the morning and then she walks over to "Arts." The "Humanities" part gets dropped by the kids when they refer to the school, but it's part of the curriculum. The classes are in several hour blocks a couple times a week instead of one hour every day of the week. It is a schedule that works better for my kid. She doesn't shift gears very quickly, and frankly, I think it helps her stay organized with just a few classes a day.

Tonight they are part of the First Friday Art Walk. All the Lincoln Art Galleries have a First Friday event on the first Friday of the month - the galleries are open and the artists are at the gallery to talk to patrons. Just like the gallery artists, Anna and her classmates have been picking pieces for their gallery show and cleaning their school. They even have snacks for their guests.

I was laying in bed last night thinking about the art in my house and my favorite artists. I feel fortunate to have been raised by an artist. My dad is on my list. So is my father in law. At the top of my list right now, I have my kid. It is that over the top pride that makes teens roll their eyes and groan, "M-o-m."

I hope that the kids at "Arts" find a way to include art in their lives forever. I am glad that they have this time and place to explore their interests. I hope that they take lessons into the real world about how to use your time and how to complete projects and how to explore ideas and how to relax. It would be easy to walk into Arts and find kids eating and playing the guitar and painting, and then dismiss their work or think that they do nothing. I don't think that's entirely true, but I can see how it would appear that way.

Et c'est là l'histoire de Manon Lescaut

2009-10-16T08:39:00.000-07:00

When I picked her up on Wednesday night from dress rehearsal, she was in tears.

"I'm getting sick!" she croaked. "I'm losing my voice! They fitted my understudy for a dress, but I will not miss opening night!" She wiped the tears away as she stage whispered her intent.

Is there anything sadder than a Drama Queen with a head cold the night before opening night?

I put her in the shower when we got home. And at 10pm, I called Red Cross Disaster Relief and asked for advice.

My Grams (who really is a Red Cross Disaster Relief expert) suggested gargling - salt water and Listerine. Also, tea with honey and lemon.

I fed the puffy-eyed starlet tea and oranges and put her to bed. I let her sleep in the next morning. I roasted chicken and made broth with lots of garlic. I lysoled the house.

"I'm going to my makeup call," my brave Diva said when she awakened from her afternoon nap. Her voice really did sound better.

The show, as everyone knows, always goes on. Luckily this one went on with Anna. She glowed bright in her bright orange dress and hat. Her cold lent a huskiness to her character's Southern accent that was appealing.

Mary and I brought her flowers and hugged her afterwards as she whispered in my ear, "My voice is gone again." She grinned ear to ear and accepted hugs and congratulations. A good opening night cures nearly everything. :-)

We repeated the shower, gargle, tea ritual when we got home last night. This morning I made her a big thermos of hot water with lemon and honey.

"Liza Minelli swears by hot water and lemon with honey," I said.

"I love Liza Minelli!" Anna exclaimed.

"Sh. No unnecessary talking," I reminded her. "No volunteering answers in Spanish class."

Her barking laughter wracked her little body as she literally shuddered at the thought of volunteering in Spanish.

The glow of opening night will get her through school and the performance tonight. She can sleep in on Saturday before the last show.

I am glad this story had a happy ending.

Harvest

2009-10-11T05:28:00.000-07:00

I brought the herbs and tomatoes in before the snow. I have a pile of green tomatoes (Usually I hang the plants by their roots in the basement and the tomatoes continue to ripen. The plants I had this year were too unwieldly for that.)

So, green tomato rice, green tomato relish, and green tomato pizza. I added the optional bacon. And also mushrooms. Bill and I agreed that this pizza was really good. From Southern Living - (and why are all green tomato recipes southern? I would think they would be from Minnesota or Nebraska.)

Green Tomato Pizza

* ***Crust***
* 2 cups bread flour
* 1 scant teaspoon salt
* 1/2 teaspoon sugar
* 1/2 cup warm water, 110°
* 1 teaspoon active dry yeast
* 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon olive oil
* 1/4 cup warm or room temperature water
* ***Sauce and Toppings***
* 2 cloves garlic, smashed and finely minced
* 3 tablespoons olive oil
* 2 medium green tomatoes, sliced very thinly (about 1/8-inch thickness)
* coarsely ground black pepper
* kosher salt or sea salt
* Mozzarella cheese, about 2 ounces, or as desired

Preparation:
In the bowl of stand mixer combine bread flour with salt and sugar.

In a 2 cup measuring cup, sprinkle the yeast over 1/2 cup of warm (110° ) water. Let stand until yeast is softened. Add the 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon of olive oil and remaining water to the yeast mixture. Add to the dry mixture, stirring with the paddle attachment until well moistened. Switch to the dough hook and mix for about 2 minutes.

Oil a large bowl and transfer the dough to the bowl (it will be tacky). Turn so the dough is oiled all over. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let rise in a warm draft-free place until doubled, about 1 to 1 1/4 hours.

Meanwhile, put the 2 tablespoons of olive oil with the garlic in a saucepan over low heat. Heat until the oil is hot and aromatic. You don't want to cook the garlic, just flavor the oil. Set aside.

Heat oven to 400°.

Transfer the dough to a floured surface and sprinkle a little flour over the top. Pat/roll the dough into a circle or rectangle about 1/4-inch to 1/2-inch thick, depending on the pan you're using. Shape doesn't really matter. Transfer to a lightly oiled pan.

Brush the dough generously with the garlic oil mixture.

Arrange tomato slices, overlapping slightly, over the dough. Sprinkle lightly with the coarsely ground pepper and salt, then sprinkle cheese over all.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until lightly browned.

Give Him the Damn Ball

2009-09-29T06:30:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately Stereotypical Dad Coach is the coach of Frank's football team this year. Frank has been lumped in with two kids who goof around and drop the ball and don't know what is going on. The coaches do not have a playbook and they yell at the kids a lot. The coach's kid plays quarterback for about 80% of the game. Frank plays quarterback for about 20% of the game. Last night he completed a pass and handed the ball off without dropping it. That's it. The rest of the game belonged to the coach's kid. Why was my kid taken out of that position? I couldn't figure it out.

Frank plays defense a lot, which he also likes, but every flag football coach he has had up until this year has made sure that the kids got equal play on offense and defense. I know I am his mom, but Frank is the tallest kid and has a great arm - distance and accuracy. He shared the position of quarterback with the coach's kid last year and got equal play. (Why does the coach's kid always play quarterback? Don't answer that.)

And on top of it all, Frank is just a really great kid.

After the game I heard several of the other dads talking to the coach about the unequal play time. I thought about saying something, but I wanted to talk to Frank first.

"Do you feel like you're getting enough playing time?" I asked him in the car.

"No. I only got a few plays on offense," he said. "The coach kept telling us we would get a chance to play offense, but he keeps playing the other guys."

"Do you want me to say something?" I asked.

"No, it's ok," he said.

"Frank never gets mad about stuff like that," Mary said.

And it's true. He's just a super patient kid. He sits on the sidelines and follows the game and does what his coach wants him to do and doesn't complain. So that's what makes me think that I need to complain on his behalf. I worry, and I think Frank worries, that I will get all Terrell Owens on the coach.

I will lay back, I think. Frank is playing some, and it's just one year of flag football. I will be sure that he is not with this coach next year. Frank's talent and teammate qualities will pay off in the long run. This 5th grade recreational flag football league is just nothing in the scheme of things, which really just fuels my Mom Fire and makes me want to call a press conference.

Give my kid the damn ball.

Earthen Vessels

2009-09-10T06:34:00.001-07:00

I have been playing the guitar again in the evenings. Mostly I play old Bob Dylan and John Lennon solo stuff. It's very acoustic guitar friendly. It's also stuff that I feel comfortable singing along with. As much as I love music and guitar, I am not much of a singer.

My latest acquisition is a guitar/songbook of "Earthen Vessels." If you're my age or older and Catholic, you'll remember the songs. They are as much a part of my childhood and deep memory as any other song from the 70s and 80s. They are gentle and easy sounding - easy to play on the guitar and sing along.

I was in the Lincoln Diocese thrift store when the conversation ahead of me sparked my interest in owning some classic-to-me church music.

"I don't go to my parish church, I go to St. Mary's because they have an organ and a choir," the woman said (she and I go to the same church - but it is my parish church).

"Oh, I prefer the old music, too," the man said. "I don't like Guitar Masses," he continued. He turned and smiled at me, "Does that mean that I am going to Hell?"

There was a huge pause as I struggled with what I wanted to say. I finally broke my silence and smiled.

"I think that people should feel welcome and happy at church and that there are lots of different kinds of music that can make you feel that way. I miss the St. Louis Jesuit music," I said.

The man pursed his lips and furrowed his brow as if I had somehow insulted him.

I went home and did some google searching and learned how hard it is to get what I wanted. I remember sheets of mimeographed chords and lyrics being exchanged between guitar players in the basement of the Blessed Sacrament Church in Denver. What happened to all those mimeographed sheets?

I found a used copy of "Earthen Vessels" and I could not be happier. It is the music I love and the guitar is as simple or complex as you are able. I did not expect the gentle and helpful instructions about tuning and strumming - what an added bonus.

So at night I sit in my room and play old St Louis Jesuits tunes because at my church we have an organ and songs that I have difficulty singing along with. Does that mean I am going to Hell?

Good grief. What an idiot.

Porcupine Meatballs

2009-09-03T12:31:00.001-07:00

Whenever I think of recipe cards, I think of this recipe. Porcupine meatballs were a frequent meal at our house growing up. My sister was in charge of dinner one night and made these. But my mom's handwritten index card did not tell her to roll the meat mixture into balls. So she didn't. (My mom is a conceptual cook and her index card listed the ingredients along with the temperature. That's it. No instructions.) Kate mixed the ingredients, patted the meat into the pan, and poured the sauce on top and baked it. We had porcupine loaf for dinner. "But it didn't say to roll it into balls!" Kate said as we all exclaimed over the loaf when it came out of the oven. We teased Kate for years about her literalness and her belief that the loaf could somehow transform into balls in the oven. I mean, she ate porcupine meatballs at least once a month. She knew they were supposed to be balls. :-)

I've never made these in my life. Thanks to the Internets I can find a recipe for anything I want to make. I think I will make these this weekend. Kate? I think you should make them too. Let me know if you go with a loaf or balls.

Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 1 hour
Ingredients:
1 1/2 pound lean ground beef
2/3 cup long-grain rice, uncooked
1/2 cup water
1/4 cup finely chopped onion
1 teaspoon seasoned salt
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/8 teaspoon pepper
1 large can (15 ounces) tomato sauce
1 cup water
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
Preparation:
Directions for porcupine meatballs
Mix ground beef with rice, 1/2 cup of water, chopped onion, seasoned salt, garlic powder, and pepper. Shape porcupine ground beef mixture by tablespoon into 1 1/2-inch balls.
Place the porcupine meatballs in an ungreased 2-quart shallow baking dish. Mix the remaining ingredients and pour over the porcupine meatballs. Cover and bake at 350° F. oven for about 45 minutes. Uncover and bake porcupine meatballs 15 to 20 minutes longer.
Porcupine meatballs serve 4 to 6.

Index Cards

2009-09-03T11:39:00.000-07:00

I read recipe books for entertainment. I collect them. I check them out of the library.

Sometimes I even cook out of them.

I do have cookbooks that I use almost weekly. I could not do without the original Moosewood cookbook. I have lots of Moosewood books, but I use the original one the most. If I buy or find a Cookling Light, I make whatever is on the cover. Kebobs, cake, corn, it doesn't matter. If it is the cover picture, I make it. I blame/thank the food photographers at Cooking Light. I love cooking magazines and I have piles of them. I recently sorted them out and I am trying to decide what to do with them. I think I will flip through them and see if there is something I can't bear to pass on, but I will send the others to the Goodwill. I love the Self Magazine recipes that I get in my email. I also get Kraft foods recipes. And there is always the newspaper food section and the cooking blogs that I read and suggestions from my friends. I am frequently inspired by literature and so I will go looking for food like the meals my characters eat. There are not enough meals for me to make everything that I want to make.

I have read the average American family rotates a dinner menu of very few offerings. We have our base meals too - homemade pizza with pesto, spaghetti and red sauce, black beans and rice, and baked salmon with rice are probably our main meals. Around those I plan whatever I read about/bought/heard about/got a hankerin' for.

I trashed the idea of the USDA meal plan after I read the menu. Blech. White rice and white bread and juice instead of actual fruit. Not for me. I found a couple of other low income menu suggestions, and found one that I love. I am glad that I got past the title.

This blogger has a $40 menu. I went with the $70 menu because I found it more "lunch outside the home" friendly. I spent more than $70, but I bought whole wheat flour and brown rice and coffee instead of tea and butter instead of margarine. What I like most about these recipes I realized is the bread recipes. They are REALLY good and easy to make. My family LOVES bread.

I also realized that while I like to try all different kinds of main dishes, I really could use some perfect bread recipes. I already have my pizza dough recipe which I perfected a couple of years ago. I realized that her whole wheat bread, flour tortilla, corn muffins, pancakes, garlic breadsticks and biscuits would make great additions to that. I like the idea of having a pancake recipe on an index card by the stove so I don't need to look it up everytime I want to make the kids pancakes. So I am going to copy them to index cards and keep them in the clip by the stove. I have never had a working recipe box. How could you possibly fit your recipes in a little box? I have always wondered. But basic bread recipes! That makes sense to me.

About the Hillbilly Housewife...I really am following her meals and they really are delicious. My children, who were leary of a week without Toaster Streudel, have been very happy with warm biscuits and muffins and pancakes in the morning.

Housekeeping is a Fulltime Job

2009-09-01T07:25:00.000-07:00

Frank has been running a fever and has a nasty cough. The fever broke and he slept through the night last night, so the signs are that he is getting better, and that's when Mary started to feel poorly.

Sick kids used to mean whining babies and hot, clingy toddlers. Now it just means that I have an unusually tired and hot kiddo who wants to lay on the couch and watch "Field of Dreams" on repeat. I joined him for one showing yesterday and he curled into me and I had a flashback of hot, clingy toddler, but overall, he is pretty independent. I am mostly here to administer Tylenol and encourage him to drink juice and water.

I have enjoyed the opportunity to clean. Yesterday I moved all the kitchen appliances off the counter and did a deep clean. I mopped and wiped down baseboards. I moved all the furniture on the main floor and cleaned the wood floors like they haven't been cleaned in years. I've been running the washer and dryer and baking bread and serving my family home cooked meals on stoneware which I cheerfully wash so that the kitchen is once again shining and clean.

I do a pretty good job as a mom with a full time job outside the home. We don't order take out or eat much prepared food. I cook from scratch, although I don't usually bake bread. But we often use paper plates and the floor usually needs to be cleaned and the towels pile up in the basement.

As a mom it is easy to be resentful that no one notices your hard work and no one wants to help you. The kids do not care that the trash is overflowing and that the toilet is stopped up and that the dishes from LAST night are still piled next to the sink. They will balance their trash precariously on top and use the toilet anyway and pile their recently dirty dishes on the kitchen table since there is no room in the sink. And then they WALK AWAY.

I do have them help, but it requires instruction and cajoling. I accept that they do things differently from me. I accept that I do more than them. And I have chosen to be that way. The clean house and home cooked meals are my gift to my family. I love them and want them to have a clean house and a good meal. It has helped me a lot to change my way of thinking and feel that way. Sometimes I am not successful and I scream and go on a rant about how I do everything around here, but most of the time I smile and ask them to take out the trash while I mop the floor.

But these days of caring for sick children has put my domestic instinct into overdrive. I happened to have a few days with nothing scheduled at work and so I have been able to devote myself to my sick children and my house. Four loaves of zucchini bread and four loaves of whole wheat bread, for example. It's been nice.

The two kids are tucked into blankets on the couch watching "Field of Dreams" (there is no way Mary will put up with that all day, so I am predicting that the movie changes after this showing) and I am going to sort fall clothes and pull out the electric blankets and put clean sheets on the bed. And then I will make them a hot lunch of beans and homemade bread. Maybe I'll join them for a movie this afternoon.

I think that the newness would wear off quickly if I really was a full time mom, but I am enjoying it right now.

Food for People Not for Profit

2009-08-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

I had a tshirt that said that once.

I am crunching numbers. There are financial changes afoot for my family this fall and Bill and I are trying to stay ahead of the changes. One of the things that we were looking at is our food bill. I mean, we feed eight people, so yeah, the food bill is big. Well, huge really. And it's hard for me to judge how much is too much. So I did some research.

I found this site from the USDA which I love. (Click on the hyperlink to bring up the chart.)

$134 to feed a family of four for a week?! For real?!

And then I found a link to a sample menu plan that is based on the USDA food guidelines and can bring my weekly food bill to $134. (I figured $112, but that doesn't account for our family of 5 and the meals that kids eat at school, etc. I am going to figure this out next week though.) Now, the USDA food guidelines is not a group of nurtitionists, it is a group of food producers. There are a LOT of bread products and dairy products and orange juice in this menu plan. I am NOT serving white bread and white rice, as suggested by the menu plan I found. But for the rest of it, I figure, what the heck, I mean, one week of orange juice every morning and milk a couple times a day will not hurt us. And a $134 weekly grocery bill would not hurt us at all!

So, next week - the blogging of a thrifty USDA mother in a household of five.

If I Knew You Were Comin'

2009-08-12T20:06:00.000-07:00

I woulda had Mary and Frank make you a cake!

Lots has changed this summer.

I am reminded how much everyone is changing. Hannah registering for college. Anna old enough for a learner's permit. Claire too old for a "child" ticket at the movies.

We bought a family swim pass as usual, and for the first summer in four years we really have not seen the necessity. We have prodded the children to the pool a couple of times, but it has not been worth it. Bill and I agreed that next year we would not buy a season pass and just pay as needed.

And yet the library has always and continues to be a hit. I am pleased to have children who love to read. I come home from work frequently and find them reading quietly.

I also come home because they are playing circus and dressed in tutus with stuffed animals in chair "cages" and trapeze lines strung between the bunk beds. They call me frantically because Frank "The Amazing Escapo" has been tied to a chair and no one can untie him. I also come home to find them playing "Azkaban" with children locked in their rooms with skeleton keys as one child, the "Dementor," patrols the hall in a sheet, wielding the keys to the various bedrooms.

I am impressed and horrified by their imaginations. (I remember that my favorite game as a child was "Holocaust." It was an elaborate game of tag. One team the "Nazis" and the other the "Jews." The Nazis were obviously always "It" and the Jews hid. We were extraordinarily resourceful. I remember Terry propping himself in the laundry chute between the first floor and basement to hide.) Yes, I am happy that they are playing games rather than mind-numbingly watching game shows. Or even worse, getting into fights and screaming and calling me when things get to the point that I can't even understand the problem until I leave work and drive home and discover that the problem is that someone ate all the macaroni and cheese. (OMG!!!!)

But sometimes, the kids who frustrate me by playing dangerous make believe games that could hurt someone, or who rot their brains watching TV, or claim they are bored because there is "nothing to do," do something really amazing. Like make a cake and frosting from scratch since their step-sisters are coming home from their grandparents. The peaches? Were their own addition.

In retrospect I really can't believe that I was surprised about who wanted to see the movie "Julie and Julia" with me. As a blogger, I loved the book. I invited Anna to go with me, but she preferred to stay at home. Mary and Frank expressed interest, which I had not expected. I kind of reluctantly took them, thinking that they would be bored. But they loved the cooking scenes (the newlywed scenes, not so much, but they were discrete and ok).

I love that I can trust my kids to bake and use the oven and follow a recipe (or make reasonable deviations - the peaches are what make this cake truly amazing to me).

Welcome home, Claire and Sophia!

Three Minutes of Hot Water for Fifty Cents

2009-08-04T06:50:00.000-07:00

I didn't make them shower. They spent three glorious days in swim suits with bare feet eating food cooked over a fire. They fished and swam and hiked. We read books and sat up late watching the campfire.

I am "from" Fremont in that I lived there longer than anywhere else in my childhood. I remember summers on my bike riding all over town and out to the lakes. Although I spent a lot of time at the lakes, I never camped out there. I had no idea that the showers were coin operated.

"But Mooooooom, we're just going to go swimming again! I don't need a shower!"

My car smells like a fishy campfire, there is a pile of laundry to wash and my car needs to be vacuumed badly. Sometimes I think that a trip to Disneyworld would be easier, but I am sure that it would not be more fun.

Food Snob

2009-07-23T18:03:00.001-07:00

If you have ever eaten out with me, you may think that I hate tomatoes. I always order "without tomato." Salad, sandwich, taco, whatever. If that tomato isn't cooked? I don't want it. (Salsa, ketchup, marinara and canned tomatoes? I am fine with them. They are what they say they are. NOT A TOMATO.)

But really? It would be hard for me to name a food that I love more than tomatoes. The problem is that the mealy, tasteless goo that calls itself a "tomato" does NOT taste like the "tomatoes" that I love.

A tomato grows in my yard or someone else's yard. It can grow on a farm, but it better not be refrigerated AT ANY POINT or it becomes a Not-Tomato.

Cheese, wine, really everything that food snobs generally rail on is generally accepted in our society. We call Velveeta "cheese" (and I will admit here that I always go for the Velveeta dip at a pot luck - just need a bit of that Velveeta goo and I am good), but everyone knows that it's Not Cheese. I just want the same respect for the humble tomato. It's not so hard to just give them a season, is it? Should I eat a piece of mealy nastiness on my club sandwich in February? No. And I am ok with that. Wait for July. Sheesh. Learn some patience and some TASTE.

I want a beautiful, firm and juicy WARM tomato. I want people to refuse to refrigerate tomatoes. It is a crime against nature to refrigerate them. I am serious.

All right. The lecture is over. I have tomatoes to eat.

One(?) Small (?) Step

2009-07-20T19:03:00.001-07:00

None of my kids want to be astronauts (I asked each of them today - Mary actually rolled her eyes.). That fits the national statistics these days.

Bill is the only person in my house of eight people that remembers man landing on the moon. He was a little boy. His grandpa took pictures of the black and white tv screen as the astronauts landed on the moon. (My parents told me about watching the moon landing, but I wasn't even born yet.)

We had lentils and cake to celebrate the anniversary. How about you? What did you think about today and what did you think about then?

Me? I am thinking that I want those black and white snapshots of a tv screen. And? I am thinking that the cake was yummy and Mary did a good job with the craters.

Glimpses of the Future

2009-07-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

It has been a rough year for me parenting Anna. Academics, social, family, really everything, has caused me concern and even panic. We argue and she resists even the simplest of directions from me. I cajole her out of bed and remind her about homework to hand in and she gives me permission slips for various things as I am trying to drop her off at the school...that kind of thing. I literally lay in bed unable to sleep and wonder how this child will function as an adult without me? How will she make it in college? How will she remember to hand in assignments to her boss? Who will pick up after her? I really can't imagine her showering without a reminder or feeding herself without someone cooking for her. And as a mom, I feel like I have somehow failed by not instilling these skills and traits.

But buried beneath the teenager that I butt heads with, is the adult that she will someday be. And sometimes I see the future adult and it takes my breath away. Anna walking confidently to the microphone at the Thespian Initiation and giving a monologue in a loud, clear voice. Anna holding her own in a conversation about world religion or politics. And this morning, the growly teen got up without argument and went to work. On the way there she chatted with me about how the owner is so happy with her dog washing skills and receptionist abilities that they are going to start teaching her other jobs at the dog salon. I dropped her off at the dog grooming salon and as she walked to the front door, a woman was walking in with a little dog. Anna smiled and held the door and talked to the woman and the dog with confidence and genuine pleasure. I sat in the car observing my daughter interact with a customer of hers and felt a burst of love and pride for this woman-child who has social skills that transcend my own. I saw her future and suddenly knew that she is her own person and will be ok. I was struck by that thought, Anna is going to be ok.

If you ask me, though, she still needs to pick up her room.

Family Traditions

2009-07-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

Frank joined me in the backyard this morning while I drank my coffee.

I love this holiday. It's one of my favorites. Food, good weather and the day off. And blowing the birdbath up with waterproof firecrackers. Good times, man.

Famous beans are in the crock pot, surprise jello sits in its mold in the frig, the ribs are marinating, and the strawberry tart with marscapone cheese is chilling.

Meanwhile we need more punks, because we have another box of fireproof crackers and a whole bag of other stuff that needs to get blown up. The bird bath is sitting on the ground waiting to be filled with water. I'll wait until tomorrow to reattach it to the base.

The Summer of Ice Box Pie

2009-06-29T16:41:00.000-07:00

I like projects. One summer I took pictures of people in public talking on cellphones. One summer I sent postcards to everyone in my address book. I wrote a novel. I refinished the floors. Projects. I am more about projects then I am about SMART Goals, but you know, they're similar. Take something you want, break it down, and do that one thing.

So this summer I decided I was making a different ice box pie every week for 10 weeks. The first week I dutifully posted a picture of my Lemon Meringue. There is nothing of my Banana Creme Pie. And I barely got pictures of the Key Lime. I can MAKE pie and EAT pie, but taking pictures and blogging about pie is too much somehow.

Because it is not the Summer of the Ice Box Pie. It is the summer that Lea Tries Really Hard to Not Lose Her Mind. Same thing, I guess.

So, key lime this week. It was delicious. Nice graham cracker crust and creamy lime filling. Homemade whipped cream. Which is just ridiculously easy to make and somehow impressive. (Anyone impressed doesn't know the ease of pouring in whipped cream to the Kitchenaid base and turning that sucker ON.)

A Winning Save

2009-06-24T07:05:00.000-07:00

The Little League version of the bullpen is that you are kept in the dugout to practice your pitching and talk to the coach while your team plays defense. So I knew that Frank would be the second pitcher of the night. I felt myself getting anxious. And I was just sitting in the stands. :-)

He pitched two innings and finished the game by striking the last batter out. There were a few hits, but only one run scored off his pitches. After striking out the last batter of the game he had a grin that I have never seen before. His teammates pounded his shoulders. His coach ruffled his hat and said, "That's how to do it!" and Frank just grinned and grinned.

He is (recently) no longer comfortable with hugging his mom in front of his friends. On the way back to the car he leaned into me as we walked.

"So is that a "win" or a "save?" I asked.

Frank began the baseball statistics analysis and discussion about what to do when the game is just 5 innings long.

I remembered the one game that he pitched the previous year. He came in at the last game in the last inning with two runs and bases loaded. He pitched high balls, walking three runners and bringing in three runs until the inning mercifully ended because of the Little League rule that if a team scores five runs then the inning is over.

The discussion last year was whether Frank had an ERA of infinity. I like this statistic better.

Hip Hop Mom

2009-06-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

The kids spent two weeks with Eric, and while I saw them during that time for baseball games, or ice cream or stopping by with a pie, they have not been to our house in two weeks. The first thing they noticed were the new stairs in front, and the flowers that bloomed in the back, and the rearranging I did in my bedroom. And the other thing that they noticed was my new obsession with a group called "Girl Talk." It's hip hop mashed with classic rock.

"When did you become a rap fan?" Mary asked with an amused look on her face.

"I can't believe that my mom listens to Lil Wayne!" Anna moaned.

"Well, it's Lil Wayne mashed up with Sinead O'Connor!" I tried to explain.

No one in my life gets why I need to listen to this stuff at full blast. My kids think I am too old and roll their eyes. It gives my husband a headache. The mash ups are genius - "Biggie" rapping over Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." The beat is a steady 4/4 that is the mother's heart beat of a child of rock and roll.

So yeah, in two weeks I became a mash up up fan.

I Started With My Favorite

2009-06-14T16:14:00.001-07:00

Lemon Meringue. It was perfect.

Next up is banana creme, I think. It is the Summer of the Icebox Pie. 10 weeks. 10 pies. Stay tuned.

Armadillos Jump When Startled

2009-06-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

"I'm going to Oklahoma to visit my parents," I said on Friday.

"Oh! I thought you were from Texas?" my assistant said.

My head spun trying to think how to explain. Well, I am not from Texas, in fact, I have never lived there, but my parents did, so I used to visit them there and now they live in Oklahoma, so I visit them there. But I am not from Texas or Oklahoma.

I have grown to know and like Oklahoma and Texas. I like the sky and the horizon and the cows and oil wells and the expanse of space between towns. I like the slowness with which people talk. I like country music in small doses and torture my kids with country music when we go down there. I like brisket from Texas. I like banana splits from Braum's. I have things that make my trips south familiar and happy for me now, but it is not where I am from and it doesn't feel like going home to drive under the Oklahoma sky and hear the accents start and watch the earth turn red.

Saturday night we sat on the back patio at my parent's house, and I saw an armadillo. I chased him out of the ravine and my kids and I followed him curiously through the playground at the school by my parents' house. His little nails clicked on the asphalt and his ears twitched as he skedaddled away. I wanted him to roll into a ball. Not really, I mean, I worried that we were scaring him too much, but we were harmless and curious, and part of me really did want him to roll into a ball because I wondered what he would look like.

I thought about that armadillo as I went North on Sunday driving home. I thought about my means of protection and how I sometimes run instead of roll into a ball. I thought about how it is sometimes hard to know what is harmful and what is not. And sometimes rolling into a ball will not protect you at all. I learned that North American Armadillos do not roll themselves into balls. They have too much armour to do that. They also have a strong startle reflex. When they startle, they jump straight up! That's why so many of them get hit by cars. The scared armadillos jump right into them.

I did feel at home on my parent's patio even though I have never sat on that patio. My parents are familiar, the tone of our conversation is familiar. Even my name, "Lea Anne," the only time I go by my full name, becomes familiar. We eat and watch movies and I see my parents with my kids and feel comforted. It is my home though it is unfamiliar. I did not feel the urge to jump or roll into a ball all weekend. I needed to go home for the weekend. And that meant that I went to Oklahoma.

You're Special Just the Way You Are

2009-06-03T20:00:00.000-07:00

Fred Rogers

A friend shared the above link, which is Fred Rogers testifying at the US Senate about PBS funding. It brought tears to my eyes.

When I was three years old, my mom went to the hospital to give birth to my sister Kate. While she was pregnant she knitted me a sweater. I requested that it have a zipper like the one Mr. Rogers wore. And the story that my mom tells is that I wore the sweater the whole time she was gone and would not take it off. (My Grandma Thomas, who stayed with me, told me that I wouldn't let her brush my hair while my mom was gone. She didn't mention the sweater. That's the way Family Lore goes, I think. People remember what is important to them.)

A writing teacher I know in Omaha is starting a writing/reading group for high school students with the intention of teaching social justice. I questioned him about that possibility and we have spent time discussing where it comes from. How do people have it and some people don't? How do you teach it?

I know that as an adult I still feel influenced by Mr. Rogers. I get the goosebumps to which the Senator refers.

The Girls' Dorm

2009-05-23T07:06:00.001-07:00

On the back of the toilet, my mom kept a red wicker basket with a handle. Her name, "Julie Anne," was glued to the side. There were also pom poms around the rim. Inside was her eye lash curler and makeup and some hair pins and her brush - that sort of thing. She told me that she made the basket when she was in college and she used the basket to carry her things down the hall of her dormatory when she showered or brushed her teeth or whatever.

When I went to basketball camp and debate camp, we stayed in college dorms and used the community showers down the hall. I remembered the red wicker basket at that time, though it was long gone by that time.

Mary and I are sharing a dorm room at the University of Tennessee while we are at Global Finals. We are walking to events and eating in the cafeteria and walking down the hall to the shared bathroom. Like the Classic Bad Roommate, she is messy and invites friends over to hang out in our room without asking and asks me to do stuff like throw away her trash. Like the Classic Good Roommate, I accompany her to parties and make sure she is safe and gets home at a reasonable hour. I remind her to lock the door and bring her stuff with her to the bathroom.

Mary and her friend Cecelia were discussing where they would live when they came to the University of Tennessee as students. They picked out their apartment by the campus and giggled.

It's really not that far away and it's really not that inconceivable. Hannah graduates in a week and she will prepare for college dorms at Creighton. She will make herself the equivalent of the red wicker basket and use the bathroom at the end of the hall. It is just begining for me - this children leaving the home thing - and with each of them it will be different.

As an adult I recognize how important the dormitories are - a transition from child/parent to child. It allows you to adjust to living with others and share space and yet does not require major house cleaning or cooking. Mary was shocked by the sparseness - the package of saran wrapped sheets and cinderblock walls. I found it comforting - like the camps of my childhood.

We are part of a community these days that we are here. People talk to each other everywhere. Last night we went to a party down by the aquatics center where people were swimming, playing soccer, dancing to a DJ and trading pins. We wandered around until after 10, got on a crowded bus and headed back to our dorm.

On the bus on the way back we got some advice on how to pack our structure for next year, a pin trade offer, and an invitation by a woman wearing a panda hat to come to her dorm for a party. We thanked the group for the structure advice, we passed on the pin trade (though Megan later wished she had known that the guy had a green dragon with red eyes pin), and we declined the party invitation since it was after 10pm.

We came back to the dorm to walk down the hall with our plastic sacks of toiletries to take a shower.

And everytime I do that, I think about Julie Anne's red basket.

Destination Imagination

2009-05-21T04:06:00.000-07:00

I think if I did not have a cold, the silliness would not annoy me. I am just going to say this here, silliness is not creativity. It can be part of it, but it is not in and of itself creative.

Mary and I are in Tennessee at Global Finals for DI. I did not imagine that I would be here when I signed the permission slip nine months ago. It seemed like a good activity for a kid that is not interested in doing many activities. Her team won Districts and then they won State and we found ourselves planning to come to Knoxville, TN.

The thing about kid activities is that they involve parents. And just as my kids told me, just because you're friends with the parent doesn't mean I want to be friends with the kid, the same applies in the reverse. Just because this is Mary's team doesn't mean that I want to hang out with the team parents, but the reality is, that is what happens. I am glad to say that I like hanging out with them and think they're pretty cool.

I feel fortunate that the team manager sets the tone for the rest of us. No light up hats and goofy stuff. I appreciate that. He genuinely embraces the true spirit of DI in my opinion, which is to encourage kids to problem solve and be creative. That doesn't mean that you have to dye your moustache a silly color.

That said, it just so happens that my hair is in part blue right now. I dyed the tips on a whim a week or so ago. It accomplished what I wanted - lifted my mood and made me feel edgy and fun even when I otherwise was frankly pretty depressed. It amuses me that my hair sort of blends in here and looks like I am just being wacky and creative. Not so much.

The kids do their instant challenge this morning. Tomorrow they perform and test their structure.

Wish us all well. :-)

Knight Vader

2009-05-17T15:44:00.001-07:00

I took the kids to the Ren Faire this weekend and we had a great time. One of their favorite activities was looking at the armour that the SCA folks use for their battle reenactments.

My nephew Nick, who was not so sure about going somewhere with his Crazy Aunt Lea, was even less sure about the whole Ren Faire Thing, had an interesting experience. He's obsessed with Star Wars. Super, super, super obsessed. And he thinks he knows everything about Star Wars. He got to try on some armour at the Ren Faire and he observed that it was similar to Darth Vader's armour. He learned about the weight and awkwardness of armour and he made the connection between the armour and George Lucas' character. I could not help but wonder if George Lucas had the same sort of experience we had. It is one thing to look at pictures of a gauntlet. It is another experience to put it on.

So the connection between George Lucas and my nephew and the knights of long ago became clear to me that afternoon.

A little clearer than Mary could see out of this helmet.

Close Your Eyes and Picture "Library"

2009-05-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

This is what I see when I close my eyes and say the word "library."

I would like a satisfactory answer as to why I can remember the exact lay out of the Denver Public Library on Montview Boulevard.

I remember the doors and check out desk and the tall wooden shelves and the padded seats all around the outside of the room.

I remember the sense of excitement as I crossed the doorway into the adult section to get my parents for something. And I remember the enormity of information available in the periodicals department in the basement. (I was just there once with my parents who were looking at old newspapers for something and I was awed by the history maintained in that room.)

I also could tell you where the Fiction separated from the NonFiction in the Cherry County Book Mobile.

I recall afternoons at the Fremont Library with the spiral staircase and the mysterious "listening rooms" (with actual turntables! I wonder if those are still there with digital listening of some sort?).

I can describe the Omaha Library where Anna got her first library card and the Grand Island Library where Mary got hers, and the Lincoln Library where Frank got his.

But none, not any of them, are as vivid visually and emotionally as that little public library in Denver that I have not seen in 30 years. Why is that?

--

Updated to add that this library and I are psychically linked or something. IT IS BEING RENOVATED! I have been dreaming about this library lately. It's freaking me out. :-) I went online to find a picture and found out that the library is temporarily closed.

Branch Library Closures
On February 16, 2009 the Decker, Hampden and Park Hill Branch Libraries will close for a period of approximately four months while Better Denver Bond funded technology upgrades, infrastructure improvements and renovations are completed. All three branch libraries are scheduled to reopen between June 23 and June 30, 2009.

Brown v. White People

2009-05-12T07:45:00.000-07:00

Recently Anna and I were talking about The Litte Rock Nine. She expressed, as many who have never experienced legal segregation, surprise at the anger and biggotry which was so easily spewed. We talked about her own school and life experiences and she noted that she had been in the majority until she got to high school.

I rented a small house in a really wealthy neighborhood when I moved to Lincoln. I chose to keep the kids in that neighborhood's very privileged school with the reasoning that their siblings went there, I didn't want to disrupt them, and that it is hard to argue with the test results and the classrooms. In a school of high achievers with fewer behavior and learning disabilities, my kids would get the attention that they needed and have a healthy and happy educational experience. That was my reasoning. It also means that they went to a predominantly white school with very few children of other races. I've always found it ironic that the surrounding streets are pilgrim ships. I mean, you literally arrive on Mayflower Avenue. Mary and Frank are friends with a brother and sister who were adopted from Khasikstan and they have struggled a bit being "of color" in a white school. The sister is pretty nonchalant about how she is refered to as "black" and that she thinks it's stupid since she's not African American and also, as she puts it, "Who cares?"

So from a white elementary school my kids moved on to a predominantly white, but mixed, middle school. And then the city's most diverse high school. When I drop Anna off, there are kids of every race and culture standing outside. There are kids wearing every manner of mall clothes, thrift store clothes, and retro clothes. There are girls wearing hijab. "On the first day of school at the convocation, there were people speaking other languages," Anna told me. Her science partner speaks Spanish when he calls his parents on his cellphone from my house. Her gay friend notes that "nobody cares" about a boy on the dance team at their school. It's a school where diversity is the norm and white middle class stands out more.

It is our neighborhood. But it was a conscious choice for me to send my kid to this school. I feel good about the choice. I wonder if I should have desegregated her sooner. A part of me that I don't like to acknowledge, feels overly protective and recognizes at least the fear behind segregation and racism.

"Wow, so you're like from the ghetto?" a kid asked Anna once.

"Yeah," Anna laughed. (It's kind of a joke in our family.)

"So, do you live next to drug dealers and stuff?"

"Nah. I live next door to Myrna," Anna said.

When people have a name? When it's not just "someone who lives in the ghetto," when it is "Myrna?" You feel different about that person. That is why de-segregation works. It makes people into individuals who are your friends and not just "those people."

When even a liberal, educated woman like myself has to have oral arguments for Brown v. Board of Education in her head? It's scary. Racism as a concept and racism as practice are two different things. People may say, and even believe, one thing and yet behave differently - particularly when it comes to their kids. Parents are most conservative when it comes to issues that affect their children. The parents opposed to desegregation when The Little Rock Nine walked up the steps to high school both vocalized and practiced their racism. I think now there is no vocalization, but there is still a voluntary pratice of racism. I am guilty of it myself.

It's Like Mile High Stadium

2009-05-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

The new name hasn't taken.

I was in Omaha today and as we cruised down Cass street, a street I am not usually on when I am in Omaha these days, I pointed out landmarks from my history in Omaha. The Playhouse, the back entrance to the Crossroads, and of course I started in on, "And there was a barbecue place here that your dad and Trevor and I used to go to dance at..." Anna idly paid attention.

"I can't believe they have the nerve to call it The Peony Park HyVee!" I suddenly exclaimed as I saw the sign.

"What's wrong with that? What's Peony Park?"

And that's when I start feeling like Uncle Remus.

"Come here youngun and I'll tell you about a magical amusement park with live music and rides and a pool with a sand beach..."

I told her about days at Peony Park with my cousin Maureen - riding the gondola through the trees and laying on the sand beach and riding the roller coaster and eating corn dogs. I told her about trips to Omaha in my friend Michele's VW Rabbit to go to Sprite Night and meet and dance with boys in the big city. I told her about the concerts I saw there - the Smithereens and the Replacements.

"Ooh!" Anna said. And, "That sounds nice."

I told her that my grandparents met at a dance at the ballroom there. And that it would be hard to find someone who grew up in or around Omaha that didn't have special memories of the place.

"I knew that they tore it down. And I knew that they put up a grocery store and I have heard people call it the Peony Park Hy Vee, but I did not know that was its actual name. I can't believe that is its actual name," I ranted.

"It's ok, mom," Anna assured me.

Sigh.

I don't Usually Do These

2009-05-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

Justin, one of my first Internet Friends, tagged me on his blog to answer these questions.

Rules to follow... if you're the kind who follows rules: Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, add one more question of your own. Tag five other un-tagged people.

What is your current obsession?
Sewing and crafting costumes for myself and my kids. I organized the basement sewing room and have all kinds of boxes to store pieces in so that I can easily tackle a project. Last night I was able to make a hair flower for my sister in law's birthday present with very little fuss and mess.

What are you wearing now?
Red and black sheath dress with my strawberry sweater. Also my un-Sigil necklace, big earrings and two rings. Black flats. I am not having a great day and so I tried to boost myself with accessories.

Do you nap a lot?
I don't know about "a lot," but I do nap. I even have a couch in my office and I would say that about every other week I will close my door at lunchtime and lay down for a short nap.

What would you like to learn to do?
Dance flamenco.

What’s for dinner?
Curried red lentil salad. Theoretically it is just Bill and me for dinner tonight, but I know that the kids will come crashing in the door around 6:30 and open the frig and cupboards and moan about how hungry they are. They will curl their lip at the lentils, and then they will eat something they heat up in the microwave.

What was the last thing you bought?
A bottle of white wine on my way home from dance class last night.

What is your favorite weather?
I think my favorite weather is just insanely hot late July in Nebraska weather where the air seems heavy with heat and everyone complains about it. I like the feeling of baked bones - like I am a carcass in the Sandhills with bones bleached and dried from the sun.

What is on your bedside table?
My bedside table is an old fruit crate turned on its side. On the shelves it has books and my own unedited novel from a few years ago that I recently decided I am going to edit. On top is a candle, probably a pair of earrings I need to put away, and a water cup.

What is your most challenging goal right now?
It is a toss up between raising my husband's teenager and raising my teenager.

What would you like to have in your hands right now?
Cinnamon ice cream in a sugar cone

What would you like to get rid of?
The stress in my life. I am making myself sick with stress right now - not sleeping well, eating everything in sight, and not exercising. I know that I need to take better care of myself and I just can't because I am suffocated with stress.

What language(s) do you want to be able to speak?
I would like to be fluent in Spanish.

What's one thing you're looking forward to?
The James Arthur Ren Faire in a few weeks.

If you were to pick up a pen right now, what would be the first thing you'd write?
circles

Who was your childhood crush?
It was a tie between Ponch on CHIPS and Terrence Miles from my reading group.

What do you want to be... when you grow up?
I complain that I should have been a lawyer or teacher, but really I am happy being a lawyer who dances and writes.

What (and when) was the last book you read?
The Tale of Edgar Sawtelle

And the question I added -
Who is your favorite Internet Friend and why?
Justin and I became Internet Friends years ago when he was still in college. We have similar writing and reading interests. We seek spiritual meaning in our lives. But really, how else would a gay college student become friends with a divorced lawyer/mom? I love the Internet. We've never met in person, but talk to each other regularly online and send each other cards and small gifts. I sometimes think that Justin has a better idea about what is going on with me than my real life friends. So Justin tagged me to answer the questions in his post and I agreed. 'Cause he's my friend. :-) He's my favorite Internet Friend because he reminds me of how amazingly complex friendship can be and how nice it is to connect with someone that I would not otherwise know but for the wonders of the Internet.

Romeo and Juliet Were Idiots

2009-05-01T08:03:00.000-07:00

The girls are in "As You Like It" at Lincoln High and the director went with a traditional set and costume theme this time (2 years ago they went with an 80s rock theme for a different Shakepearean comedy). The girls are both lovely in floor length gowns with big sleeves and flower garlands. Hannah did not get the role that she wanted, but got a nice big role for her final play. Anna got several good scenes and a small paragraph - impressive for a freshman.

Shakespeare is of course the classic and it is what allows directors to play with costume and time and place. In the program for the play all of the actors who are members of the Thespian Society have an asterix by their name. The director, who has a sense of humor, made sure to put an asterix by Shakepeare's name. I found that to be funny.

The drama at home continues and I have been thinking of a modern adaptation of "Romeo and Juliet" as told from the point of view of the parents. Hannah is Mercutio. Anna is Juliet. I am the Nurse. But this Nurse doesn't believe in star-crossed lover crap. She thinks that teenagers are dramatic and illogical and hormonal and that they need to get more sleep, be respectful of their parents, and eat healthy foods.

Juliet (texting): omg parents r so stooooooopid

Romeo (texting): i no!!!!!!!

Rock Me Amadeus

2009-04-26T07:44:00.000-07:00

I had to drag them to a theater showing of Amadeus. They argued with me about the movie, about the trip to Omaha, about classical music, about spending the day with their family, about how they were sure they would be bored.

I didn't even tell them that the movie was 3 hours long.

They weren't bored for a second. They all three loved it. My teen with her shining eyes talking about the costumes and sets, my middle daughter with her scheming look wanting to talk about how Salieri killed Mozart, and my big, strapping son, taller than his older sister, collapsed on a bench in the hall outside the theater crying for Mozart.

"It's ok, Frank," I assured him.

"He gets it from you," Anna and Mary said confidently. They smiled at my own wet cheeks and eyes. "Why did he just get thrown in a hole with other people?" Frank wailed. And I found myself talking with him about poverty and death while we sat on the bench at the theater.

"Mozart just got a few coins for The Magic Flute!" Mary crowed. "If I were him, I would have sold it for a lot more," Mary said confidently. Anna noted, "You know, I don't think the Vaudeville would have had such fancy costumes. I don't think that was realistic." Frank moaned in my arms.

I revisited a familiar theme for me - the curiosity of personality. I study my children and wonder why they react the way they do and wonder about the experience of seeing this movie together and wonder how they will each remember it and how it will affect them. Frank has a deep intuitive approach to the world that I recognize in myself. Does it come from me genetically or just from being around me? The girls have likewise experienced the world with me, but their observations are slightly different than mine.

Next weekend I am attending a writing workshop on Teaching Social Justice Through Writing. I am not a writing teacher, but I am very curious at the idea that we can somehow teach social justice through writing. I would argue that you can't teach the actual sense of social justice. An awareness of social justice, perhaps, but not social justice itself. I am curious to attend the session, though, and I thought about it as I held my son who reacts to humanity in the same way that I do - the heightened sense of justice that my mother saw in me early on. Where did it come from?

"It's ok, Frank," I assured him. "It's just a movie."

"I know. But he really did die poor and get thrown in the ground, didn't he?"

I nodded and began to cry again. I realized that Frank was experiencing a very complex emotional onslaught. He was reacting to a fictional story realizing that it depicted reality, at least to some extent, and realizing the effect of death and poverty. It is overwhelming. I know the feeling. I am the right person and the wrong person to comfort him. We sat in the lobby on a bench and cried as people filed out of the movie talking about music, or like Anna, talking about the costumes and the sets.

Mary slipped her arm around me on the walk to the car. "So do you think that Salieri poisoned him with real poison or just with his mind?" Her twinkly eyes shone as she tried to unravel the conspiracy.

"What do you think?" I asked.

We drove to dinner talking about the movie and continued the conversation through the evening. After Frank and I calmed down, we were able to talk about conspiracy and God and sets and costumes and food.

I am glad I dragged them to the movie in the first place. I knew they would love it. :-)

Root Beer Floats Sometimes

2009-04-25T23:09:00.000-07:00

For our wedding anniversary last summer, Bill and I took the kids to Kansas City to go to a baseball game, which got rained out, so we all went to dinner at Buca di Beppo. We ordered a pitcher of root beer for the kids. When the waiter brought it, he spilled it on my lap. All over my white skirt.

I laughed. The waiter was horrified. He brought me napkins. I soaked up the root beer as best I could. We finished our meal, went for a walk around the Plaza in the rain (with a giant root beer stain on my white skirt), and I took pictures of the kids throwing coins in the fountains until we went back to the hotel. Bill and I later talked about the incident and noted that I am a unique person in that root beer can spill on my white skirt at my anniversary dinner which was supposed to be a baseball game that got rained out and it still doesn't ruin the evening for me.

I am generally an optomistic person. It is work to be that way. I mean, I was upset and embarassed that my skirt was stained brown, and that I didn't get to go to a baseball game and on and on. But I knew that it was not worth it to be upset. That in the long run this did not matter and that I could decide to have a good evening despite a root beer stained skirt. This type of conscious optomism requires energy.

I can't always do it. I get worn down. Lately my reserve of energy has been empty. I did not have it in me this weekend to go on a long trip with my family to go to my brother in law's wedding. I could not do it. I knew that. So I chose to stay home with my kids and sent Bill with his kids. It was not an easy choice to make. We really do feel like a family, and I felt the loss of my family this weekend - most especailly Joe and Amanda who I love. (I am not going to go into the issues in detail here. It is not Bill. Things are actually really good between Bill and myself right now. I just didn't want anyone to assume anything.)

My friends rallied. On Thursday night, my friend Jade came over to hula hoop with me and the kids at sunset. On Friday night, the two Kays from Grand Island, work friends of mine, came over with Indian take out and sat around the table with me and my kids and later that evening my friend Sam showed up with her son Jaevyn and Jade to do home pedicures with me. On Saturday I went to dance class in the morning and took my kids to Omaha in the afternoon. We explored Greek pottery at the Joslyn, went shopping and did a photo booth together, went to Amadeus together and ended the evening at my friend Ann's house where her son grilled me tilapia in the rain at 8pm because that is when I showed up. Ann and I talked as kids played and cooked.

I feel loved and supported and filled with positive energy. If I were a cartoon character, my energy bars would be glowing again. I feel ready to have a root beer dumped on me.

Fundraising

2009-04-15T18:55:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school I qualified for Catholic Nationals and my coach, Fred Robertson, made sure that I got to go. (My parents had a lot to do with that, too, but this is about Fred.)

Fred coached speech and debate at Fremont High School for a lot of years. I was fortunate enough to be on his team the second year he coached debate. He is without a doubt, one of the best influences of my high school years. And he remains a voice in my head years and years later. He's that kind of teacher.

When we did practice debate rounds in those years we would go to his house in the weekday evenings where he would critique us in his basement. We would debate justice vs. individual freedom, or whatever, and Fred would give us feedback. The best part was afterwards when we would pump Fred for stories about the pictures on the wall in the basement - him with lots of race horses - he used to help train race horses. Fred would play record albums - our favorite was his Tammy Faye album.

Tonight I got a fundraising request from him for a student who qualified for Nationals in three events and there are some financial issues. Fred assured us that any money would not be bet on his nephew's horse who is running in the Kentucky Derby.

But then I thought, why not? Why not bet the money on the horse in the Kentucky Derby and send the money to Fred for his student? I mean, if you're gonna bet on a horse anyway, put a $20 on Win Willy and send Fred your winnings.

Fred Robertson, 2712 N. 96th Drive, Omaha, NE 68134

The horse is "Win Willy."

My Mom Went to Seattle and All I Got Was Fish

2009-04-07T09:06:00.000-07:00

I was away for an extended weekend and in that time Mary's DI team qualified for Global Nationals and Anna got the news that she lettered in Theater and was asked to be part of the International Thespian Society.

This calls for a celebration.

It's a good thing that their mom bypassed the tshirts and mugs and magnets at the Seattle Market and got what her kids REALLY love. FISH! An Alaskan Halibut. Just came into season. Filleted and packed in ice for me to bring home on the plane. On my walk back to my hotel I spotted baby cauliflower out of the corner of my eye. As I cuddled the cauliflower, the produce man helpfully told me that he had baby artichokes and baby beets and baby carrots. So I ended up with a bag of fresh baby vegetables as well.

Is it dinnertime yet?

Bye, Bye, Birdie

2009-03-26T10:34:00.001-07:00

Anna was cast as a boy-crazy teenaged girl. Ahem. As a member of the "Conrad Chorus" she screamed and bounced and sang and swayed and followed Conrad everywhere singing, "We love you, Conrad. Oh yes we do!"

She sang and swayed her little heart out.

Anna in her "Super Strike" tshirt after the show so she can help dismantle the theater.

Bringing Down the House

2009-03-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

Last night my daughter performed as part of "Bye, Bye, Birdie." I don't have a picture of her in her costume. She immediately changed into jeans and t-shirt after the show so she could help with the strike.

For those of you who don't do theater, a "strike" is when actors and tech people take down the set after the play or musical is over. There's usually a party after the set is struck.

Last night it was not a "strike" it was a "super strike." The actors and their parents and their teachers tore apart the whole theater and the whole backstage area and the prop room and the costume department. Everything. Costumes, lights, sound equipment, sets, props, EVERYTHING was packed up, given away, sold, or thrown away.

Including the seats. All of them. House and balcony.

We started at 11pm. We finished at 6am. I marked the two sets of seats that I wanted. I got two ends - seats 1 and 2, ironically from different rows. Just like my kids, they are the same but different.

H for "Hannah."

Blank for "A" for Anna. (Did you know that the first row does not have a letter?)

I've watched both my girls - my A and my H - perform in this theater and for that reason, these seats are really important to me.

It was a lot of work. Physical labor. I came home sweaty and dusty. It's also emotional. 100 years of memories in this theater.

A Joke

2009-03-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

So a teen girl in a poodle skirt, bobby socks and a monogrammed shirt walks into the Emergency Room...

Ok, so getting a bloody nose in the middle of dress rehearsal for "Bye, Bye Birdie" is no joke. And neither is a 45 minute bloody nose that won't end and results in a call to your mom and a trip to the ER, but it seemed awfully funny to Anna as she flounced in with her giant skirt and crinoline, all while clutching bloody towels to her face. Of course everyone at the hospital commented on her outfit, and of course it resulted in peels of giggles from the patient.

She's fine. Soaking in the tub and wondering what everyone at school is going to be saying tomorrow, but fine.

Irish Eyes

2009-03-16T20:01:00.000-07:00

Technically this is a picture of our Irish hair.

I don't see the kids. I don't notice that Mary is so tall that her head is above my shoulder. Or that her hair waves just exactly like mine. Until I look at a picture like this and it smacks me in the head.

She agreed to be my partner at the Irish folk dance. We dragged Frank with us, and he agreed to be the photographer. That's why we have a picture of our backs. If I had thought to pose the shot it would be the two of us facing the camera and we would smile and maybe our smiles would look the same, but there is something about this back view that captures similarities that I don't usually see.

Frank the Photographer has the Irish Eyes in this picture.