Dog Bones

Mayhem and I went to the grocery store the other day and one of the things on our list was a package of dog bones. <--That is bones FOR the dog. See right away we get to the part I never thought much about. I've already said how before I had a dog I didn't know they actually, in real life buried bones (and they do!) Now I have to admit that I didn't ever once think about where dogs got the bones that they liked to bury. I knew where rawhide shaped like bones came from (=Petco - although now that I think about it more - I don't know about the 'raw' or what kind of 'hide'!) If I had thought about where the 'real' bones come from, I would have assumed that dogs got them from 'doggie bags' of restaurant food brought to them by loving owners. And I would have been wrong! Dogs who get their bones that way are apparently dead dogs! I had overheard enough to know that dogs could choke on chicken bones - but what about all that other stuff? I mean, why do they call them 'doggie bags' if you're not supposed to feed them to your dog?! The one (and only) time I lovingly shared my left over and very special, imported, ultra yummy Calhoun's ribs with Wasabi - Sweet Hubby FREAKED OUT and lectured me. Cooked bones can splinter and perforate doggie innards. I cried and wouldn't let my dog out of my sight for days! (I'm happy to report that while I'm pretty sure the spicy barbecue sauce caused him a wee bit of digestive distress- there was no evidence of any actual intestinal injury. Pfew.) So - where do dog bones come from? "The butcher," SH said. Of course. That makes sense.

That brings us right back to Mayhem and I looking at every single package in the store that looked like it could possibly contain raw bones suitable for the pup. No joy. Lots of raw meat, lots of steaks with a little bit of bone, but no packages with mostly bone and priced accordingly. So we stood in line for a million years while the three little old ladies in front of us by turns flirted with and harangued the young, Nascar-hat-wearing, sincere-yet-not-so-bright butcher. Really, he's probably more like the butcher's apprentice because he seemed more than a little baffled by his job. "You want me to cut that up?" he kept asking them one after the other AFTER they'd already handed him their packets and spent ten minutes detailing exactly which piece of meat they wanted cut which way. (Mayhem and I learned a LOT about how meat used to be cut and packaged back when these ladies were first young housewives.) I figured when it was finally our turn, we would be the easy customers. All we needed was to have him point us towards the dog bones. And I was right. The kindly butcher's apprentice looked much relieved when I explained that we couldn't find the bones for dogs. He said, "Oh, we just got some in. I'll go look in the back."

Imagine if you will, the look on my face, when he trotted back out, grinning proudly, with an ENORMOUS (and I mean four and a half foot long) raw bone of woolly mammoth in his hands. <--Ok, maybe it wasn't an actual woolly mammoth bone - but I wouldn't bet against it. This sucker was HUGE and the kindly butcher's apprentice stood there looking like Bam Bam. Mayhem's eyes goggled. The butcher's apprentice held this thing out at us - mind you with no wrapping - just offering it to us. Um...? Did he expect me to pluck it from his hand and plunk it into my cart?! Mayhem got the all over giggles. The butcher's apprentice looked at Mayhem and looked at me and then looked at the bone. "Uh...You want me to cut that up?" I thought Mayhem was going to pee his pants he was laughing so hard. "Yes please," I said. "My dog is a terrier. I think that might be a bit much for him as is." "Ok, be back in a second." A short while later he returned with a shrink wrapped, styrofoam package containing exactly one teeny, tiny little round bone. The three of us bent over to look at the package and then stared back up at each other. "Um, is that all there is? Could I, perhaps, buy several pieces of that giant bone you just cut up?" "Oh. Yeah. Sure. That would be ok." After just a few more such exchanges, Mayhem and I managed to be able to cross dog bones off the list. Mayhem giggled off and on for about an hour over the whole thing and Wasabi was certainly appreciative enough of his treat to justify any hassle - but I keep wondering to myself "Is it this way for all new dog owners?"
Peace.

Nature, Red Of Tooth And Claw

A friend sent me this story today. Only his version had pictures. Ewwwwww.
On an intellectual level though, I'm not sure that the link I gave you isn't worse! In the version I see when I follow that link, instead of pictures there is a big ad that says "San Diego Zoo's WILD Animal Park - Are you game?" I, for one, think it's a TERRIBLE slogan to link with a story in which one zoo inhabitant eats another zoo inhabitant unexpectedly and messily in front of visitors!!
I asked my friend why oh why he insisted on sending me scary bear stories (of which this is only one of several) and I told him I wasn't sure I could eat lunch now.
His reply?
Don't skip lunch, just don't order 'monkey kabobs'.
I might not forgive him for putting the phrase 'monkey kabobs' into my brain. I. can't. get. it. out. (Ear worms, they're not just for breakfast anymore.) Monkey kabobs may never officially make the Orgel list, but realistically? It is waaaay more memorable than the word 'dearth'. Maybe we could start a write-in campaign?

Reading Labels And Label Reading

Yesterday Havoc was officially labeled with the 'disability' of being gifted. Isn't that just a bit off? I understand the reasons for the legalese. I still think it's a strange way of doing things. And the process by which this label was obtained has been nothing short of Byzantine. I am extremely ambivalent about it - about the process and about the label itself. Havoc is brilliant. He has the academic benefit of being the youngest of five. (After all, how many pre-schoolers do you know who know their multiplication tables? But with two, third-grade siblings doing a half an hour of math drill in the carpool every single solitary morning for a year, what can you expect??) In addition to that though, he has always been an atypical thinker. He is fascinated by patterns and maps and relationships. He connects and reconnects facts over and over again. He looks at things from very interesting perspectives. He also reads like a fiend. We're a book oriented family, no doubt about it - but he takes the cake. He is in the first grade and is reading The Thief Lord - a wonderful book my fifth graders read at the beginning of the year! It is awfully difficult to find books that are interesting enough for Havoc from a language standpoint - but which are thematically appropriate. Not that I am complaining! There are waaaay worse challenges to have.

I had him tested for the magnet school two years ago - and he qualified and got put into the lottery to determine places on the waiting list. I am sure that it had NOTHING to do with the fact that I was the only parent unable to be present for the drawing, but he was 'randomly selected' to be 39th on the waiting list of 39. I was told he'll probably make it to the top of the list by 7th grade. Ok. It turns out that I'm not as upset about that as you'd think I would be. I took a good look and listen at the parent meeting I was able to attend. The other parents there? Like tennis moms or cheerleader moms - but of the dork persuasion. Seriously. Overbearing, with voiced, out-of-control high expectations for academic achievement and gobs of free floating anxiety. I didn't meet any of the kids, but the parents freaked. me. out.

I tried to get the 'regular' elementary school to let Havoc skip up a grade. He only misses the cutoff to be in the next class up by a couple of weeks anyway with his November birthday - but no go. Apparently, that's not fashionable in educational circles these days. They cited things like maturity and peer relations. (Ahem, remember the part about his siblings all being 4+ years older than he is? I KNOW how he relates to older kids. Just fine! Besides he wouldn't be THAT much younger than his classmates anyway!!) The educators also were worried that it could impact his self-esteem negatively if he was unable to keep up academically. Did they even LOOK at his achievement test scores? (*The answer to that question is 'No' but more about that below.) They had scheduled us for one hour of testing but couldn't stop the test until he missed a certain number in a row. After TWO AND A HALF HOURS Havoc complained a little about how long it was taking and the tester explained how it worked - and voila! He missed the right number in a row and got to be done and have some candy. He was six. He got the highest percentile their test could measure and was in the middle of sections for fourth and fifth grade work. That was last summer! Right after Kindergarten. He was moving to a new school - I thought it would be perfect. He could just start in second grade and all the kids would accept him as a natural second grader. School's answer: No can do. I kept asking questions. I kept answering the objections they brought up. It came down to the principal saying that it was her decision and hers alone. She did admit that she had in the past allowed children to 'skip' but her answer in my child's case was "No." I'm sure it has NOTHING to do with power, influence, country club membership (or my lack thereof). No, I couldn't possibly get that impression from her shellacked face, coiffed hair, expensive yet ugly tailored clothes, or her patronizing tone and lecture about how I may not know very much about private schools, but here at ____ Elementary the environment was very competitive and although my child had performed well in another (and lesser) environment her experience led her to believe that he would not be able to maintain it at her institution. (Can you tell I wanted to spit?) After much reading about the qualifications it takes to become a nationally recognized "Blue Ribbon School", I am now also sure that the principal's refusal to even consider changing my child's placement has NOTHING to do with the benefits the schools receive when they have kids score well above their grade level. Grrr.

Other options? The 'gifted' program. When I was a kid, the 'gifted' kids were obnoxious. And smelled funny. I realize that is not a very intellectual or rational reason to resist this label for my child - but there it is. I found out waaaay later in life my test scores had qualified me for the 'gifted' program at my school but my parents hated that label and wanted me to be routinely challenged in the general curriculum, not pulled out and treated differently. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, now does it? They chose to pull me out of public school and send me first to a 'non-graded', Catholic school and later to a secular, college prep, all girls' school. I don't have comparable options so we're trying the 'gifted' thing. Oh, I go back and forth about this!

In addition to the detailed paperwork, we had to meet (multiple times!) with a commitee whose purpose was to consider whether my child met the criteria for futher evaluation to determine if he was an appropriate candidate to be tested in order to find out if he is in fact, "gifted". At this committee meeting of seven (teachers/administrators/psychologists), it was explained that if the four intermediate steps were successfully navigated, that my child would undergo several testing regimes including IQ testing, achievement testing, creativity assessments and the like. I asked if there was an issue with the testing that had already been done. The committee chairwoman looked at me blankly. "Already done? What tests?" I said, "The IQ testing, achievement testing, creativity assessments, etc that were done last July." She flipped through her folder. SHE HAD NO RECORD OF IT!! The principal sat there blank faced, studiously NOT LOOKING AT ME! Havoc's first-grade teacher (whom I adore and who is pushing to get him the resources that he needs) said timidly with nervous glances at the principal that she believed she might perhaps have a copy in her files if she could just run get them. The principal glared at me but deigned to allow the copies to be brought forth. I wanted to SCREAM! This mean, petty, power tripping woman had WASTED all of these teachers' time calling a meeting for a screening to determine whether my son was qualified to even take take a test he had ACED a year ago?!! She had the NERVE later in the meeting to pointedly explain that one of the main things the committee would be looking for was whether my son was truly 'gifted' or whether he was "simply a superior academic achiever". If found to be 'merely academic' then he would not be eligible for the gifted label or program she assured me. It is only my deep and abiding faith that snarky, insufferable people come to bad ends that kept me from flipping her off.

She was not present at yesterday's meeting - which I correctly interpreted as a likely indicator that Havoc would get to be in the program next year. In spite of the horrible principal, I like this school. I like the teachers I've come to know (and I detect the tension between them and the administration even if they are too professional to say anything negative -which makes me like them even more!) I have been reassured by many parents who have shared my concern about labels that especially in elementary school these days, the labels are not as big of a deal as they were in 'our day'. One parent who volunteers in the classroom a lot says the kids often mash the two main program names ('resource' and 'search') together and say they're going to 'research' and no one bothers much. I think the Search teacher is amazing. She has told me that she believes Havoc belongs in her program. If for no other reason, she said, than to have some quieter time than the large classroom setting offers to be around the other 8 or 9 kids his age who think and read the way he does. She promised that they really don't smell funny.

Peace.

Room In Progress

Sweet Hubby showing the Ninja Princessa how to paint trim.

Now the Princessa is painting solo. She is very thorough. I think her father would like it if she'd speed up just a tiny bit.

She has 8 or so of these lovelies dangling from her ceiling. Her room is going to be like living in the middle of a May day all year long.





I love her brightness and optimism. I'll be a little sad, yet not too surprised when she wants a new paint color in about three years. Who will give me odds that she'll want 'Death Black'?
Peace.

Watching Paint Dry

It's been a sweet, quiet Mother's Day. I have my kids home - but they are content to putter and play. We are redoing the Princessa's room. It has gone surprisingly smoothly. Yesterday was all churn and moving furniture and garbage bags and wrenching decisions about what treasures to keep and which ones to let go to new homes. Today? Quiet. In fact, the loudest thing about today is the paint color she has chosen: Awakening Green. She said she wanted 'Lime Green' - and this is sort of limey. It's the kind of lime that probably grew near Chernobyl - manic and glowing - but she LOVES it. (And really? I can't say a word because I sent the Princessa to Lowe's with her color-blind father and her two best friends to pick out paint! I'm ever so glad we limited the paint to one color because the 'coordinating' color paint chips they brought home had names like "Cheery Aqua" and "Orange Delight". YIKES!!)
We're in between coats right now and we're fixing to rip up the carpet. We already ripped the carpet out of her closet and that was surprisingly easy. I hate to jinx a home-improvement project right in the middle of it - but I think it's going to be done on time! Her carpet will be installed tomorrow and the bed her grandmother is giving her is ready for pick up at our convenience. Her other grandmother and aunts are taking her shopping for bedding/curtains on Wednesday. I think all should be in place for her Friday night sleepover. Considering the months and months my studio took - this is feeling easy peasy to me. Maybe next time I do my studio I'll choose 'lime' green too.
Peace.

Weather Permitting

I'm off to dig up irises with a long-lost, soon-to-be friend. We're going out to the retreat center where I used to live in a board and batten cabin with my first husband and three young sons. When the house is small (770 sq ft) and the land is big (77 acres) - you tend to spend lots of time outside. I loved being a 'country mouse'. The boys and I would go for 'rambles'. We would walk through the woods down to the river. We'd hike around at the bottom of the bluffs. We'd scour the fields for wild flowers and we'd play hide and seek in the orchard. It was all very Walden and Tintern Abbey. We had almost no money for toys and no room to put them in the house even if we could have afforded them. My guys had mud instead of play-doh and sticks and rocks instead of action figures. They used to talk to flowers. To this day, peonies are the flower I most associate with motherhood: they bloom around Mother's Day, smell divine, and I can remember Mayhem telling me (at age 4) that he liked to talk to them the best because they listened and bobbed their heads to show they understood. (They also end up heavy and drooped on the ground which is how I felt so very much of the time with three baby boys!) Mary Oliver understood: lush/fecund life, mysterious/dark death, peonies. If you don't have the book American Primitive, you need it.
Today - we live in a suburban neighborhood 45 minutes away from that rural outpost. And even my youngest baby is older than the oldest was then. My boys are in school and know other kids. They have action figures and video games. But you know what? All three of them love going back and have taught their new siblings to love it, too. This morning they all want to go with me and my almost-new friend to dig in the dirt. They're out of school in only two weeks - so I've promised to take them soon. But I may have to bring them back a peony blossom (ants and all) just for old times' sake.
Peace.

Reunion Churn

I graduated 41st in a class of 82 girls. "How mediocre can you get?" I used to wonder way back when. Pretty soon after graduation, I realized that number, especially taken out of the crazy context of my brainiac class, said very little about me as a person. Until my twentieth high school reunion this past week, I hadn't even thought about that statistic for about 19 years. Reunion churned up a lot of stuff for me - and a surprising amount of it was in the form of statistics - old and new. Here are a few:

Of my class of 82 girls, 22 of them qualified as National Merit Semi-Finalists. (I was one of them. That's an unprecedented - even for my school - (more than) quarter of the class!)

I went to an all girl's school where 30% of the student body was diagnosed bulimic/anorexic. I was not part of that 30%. My stat fell in the bulimic, yet un-reported category. The school staff tried to address the eating disorder problem, bless their hearts. Sadly, their well intentioned assemblies only served to make us aware of purging methods we hadn't figured out on our own and alerted us to which 'warning signs' we needed to hide. Seventeen years of recovery later and I still don't know what more they could have done with a population seemingly handpicked to be at risk: teenage girls (age and gender), upper middle to upper class (socio-economics), caucasian and Southern (ethnic and cultural), competitive school/families with (sometimes unreasonably) high expectations (environment), in the 80's (the skinny jean, skeletal, super model era). When I think about it that way, I am grateful that at least half of our class was healthy!

Fifteen of us now have at least 3 children (with only 3 sets of twins and only one set of those in a 3+ kid family) - and that's with updates on only 60 classmates. I don't know how that compares to the general population - but it strikes me that I was in a very fertile class.

One hundred percent of my class went to college (eventually). More than half my graduating class has multiple college degrees. (I'm the only girl who didn't go immediately after high school and it took me 13 years to finally get ONE degree.)

Surprisingly, our class falls well below norms in terms of gay girls with only two of my classmates being out and only one other (that I know of) still somewhat closeted. Perhaps statistics from the quarter that didn't report back would bring us closer to national averages. I'm sad to think that perhaps some of my classmates felt unwelcome at reunion.

1/82 of us are pierced in places other than ears. (Guess which one of us that is?) ****UPDATE: TWO of us are pierced. And at least three of us have tatoos. We are a little further ranged as a class than I first gave us credit for being. Woo hoo.****

Ninety percent of us have traveled/studied overseas at one point in the past 20 years. Five of my classmates still live in other countries.

Two of my class were in the military. (Both of us were Navy - different times, different places - but GoNav!)

Although I don't know exact numbers, I know enough to say that our class is right in line with the national averages for rape, abortion, divorce, and remarriage.


All these numbers float around in my head. Why do we even keep track? What other numbers are there and how do we track things that aren't sound-biteable? Then it was grades and college acceptances. Now it's degrees and babies. In between it was elation and work and sometimes trauma - but it's all reduced to statistics except between you and your closest friends: the ones who were with you the whole way through and don't need the 1,000-word synopsis.

This weekend I experienced an expected amount of chafing. I found myself - with girls I hadn't seen in 20 years - back in the same high school constellations because we hadn't charted anything in between. It was great to discover that it was possible (even at this late date) to change those fixed positions. I came out of reunion weekend with plans for this week with two different women I'd not spoken to in any meaningful way since May of 1986. One was a close friend when we were sophomores and the other was in almost all of my classes and yet we never once had a one-on-one conversation until Friday. She and I are going to go dig up irises tomorrow.

I was unpleasantly surprised to find myself thrown back into old patterns with old, still-close friends with whom I already had charted new paths. Specifically, I was amazed at how much it hurt for four friends to all name each other and exclude me in post-college, life-in-DC-together anecdotes. I lived in the same building with three of my friends and the fourth lived two metro stops away. They all named each other and each one of them forgot I was even there. One of the four is my good friend and also my first cousin. She and another one of the four were close enough to me (in my heart) to have been invited into the delivery room with me in DC when I gave birth to my first child. Being excluded by them, even in the most casual way possible, hurt my feelings in a way I had completely forgotten existed. Being left out, being included, feeling out of place or like an alien, wanting to know and be known, issuing/receiving pre-emptive/retaliatory rejections - ahhhh the good old days!

I was guarded in high school. Even in a small school with all girls - I think it's the only way most of us survive the high school turbulence. I don't think I had a (larger than normal) chip on my shoulder in high school - but I certainly had my conscious rebellions and intentional filtering devices. When I dyed my hair purple, it wasn't even against the rules at my school. It hadn't occured to the administration that one of their girls would consider (much less actually do) such a thing. The uniform code was immediately amended (although I had amnesty.) I loved my purple hair. It kept away people who were easily freaked out and it was fun. My real friends knew I was more than the color of my hair and they also knew I looked at things from a different angle. Going to reunion, I thought I had my shields up again. And I did. Except it didn't occur to me to have them guarding me from the friends I've stayed close to all these years. Don't get me wrong. It's not a death wound to our friendship. It's more like a really nasty (sharp and unexpected) papercut that bleeds all over everything for about two days and then disappears. And you, my lovely blogniks are like my bandaid. I don't know why, but blogging helps. (Well, blogging and the three Long Island Teas, half a pack of cigarettes, kissing on my love, and dancing until 3 am at the Lipstick Lounge after the reunion stuff was done - all of that helped. Yeah, yeah. I know. Mature, healthy, centered that wasn't. And yet...I had fun, blew off steam, got re-anchored and re-perspectified, and most importantly remembered why I don't drink and smoke like that anymore. Blech!)

There you have it, reunion in a nutshell: statistics, churn, new friends from old acquaintances, papercuts from old friends, and blognik bandaids. I'm glad I went. I'm glad we don't have another one for a while.
Peace.

He Lies Like A Rug

This is my offering for today: more doggy blogging. I'll have more tomorrow on the churn that was reunion. Today Havoc and the Princessa are both home from school (for asthma and a foot injury) so we'll likely be at the doc's all the live long day.
Peace.

Heavy Medal

Here's the picture I wanted to post: VBGF and I with our medals! Did I tell you how heavy those suckers are? It was ridiculously reassuring to feel that weight around my neck. I want a whole collection of them!

Little Known Fact

St. Ann pretty much double-dog dared me to post this tidbit of trivia -

Most people don't know that back in 1912, Hellmann's mayonnaise was
manufactured in England.

In fact, the Titanic was carrying 12,000 jars of the condiment
scheduled for delivery in Vera Cruz, Mexico, which was to be the
next port of call for the great ship after its stop in New York.

This would have been the largest single shipment of mayonnaise ever
delivered to Mexico.

But as we know, the great ship did not make it to New York.

The ship hit an iceberg and sank, and the cargo was forever lost.

The people of Mexico, who were crazy about mayonnaise, and were
eagerly awaiting its delivery, were disconsolate at the loss.

Their anguish was so great, that they declared a National Day of
Mourning, which they still observe to this day.

The National Day of Mourning occurs each year on May 5th and is
known, of course, as

Sinko de Mayo.

WHAT!!!! You expected something educational?
Peace.

Paschal Wasabi

Fusion Cuisine By Havoc

If Havoc ever offers to make you a sandwich, you might think twice before saying yes.
I found out too late to do anything about it (other than be completely grossed out) - but today, when the kids got the chance to make their own sandwiches, Havoc made his a provolone cheese, strawberry jelly, and mayonaise sandwich on oat bread.
You were warned.

Prom Night

Did I mention that my reunion - my freaking 20th high school reunion - is this weekend? This is a picture of me and the boy I was sure I would someday marry. We dated for three high school years (which are like dog years.) We were certifiably the old married couple of our crowd. I couldn't get the scanner to work so the better picture I have is languishing here on my desk. Otherwise you'd see what an incredible dress I was wearing. It was a Victor Costa, knee length, cocktail dress that my mother refused to buy for me on the grounds that a) it was too 'mature' for me and b) it cost $250. Evil (and pissed off) child of parents who were mid-divorce that I was, I got my father to buy it for me. My mother was furious. "What's your damage?" I remember asking her. (<--What a pill I was! Did you catch the part where I was pissed off that my parents were divorcing?) I'm lucky I got to go to prom. I'm lucky I had a head in this picture! I was actually already enlisted in the Navy and leaving in a few short weeks, so I suppose my mom figured ripping my head off might be a breach of contract or something. I can't imagine any other reason for appearing unscathed in this picture. Be that as it may, I had a FANTASTIC time at prom. Twenty. Years. Ago. I can't get over that part. And now, will someone please explain to me why my children (who are too close to their own prom nights for my comfort) are "creeped out" at this picture of me? Anyone? They just hee and haw and make shivery, shuddery motions. I guess being a pill runs in the family.

Peace.

Poster Child For Diversity

When Havoc was four, his father got remarried. Havoc LOVED getting to wear a tuxedo that day. He said to me, "When I grow up, I'm going to wear a suit all the time - even on days I'm not getting married." (Sidenote: now, as a special treat, right when he is about to outgrow them, I let him wear his suit/penny loafers whenever he wants. I'm sure the neighbors think it's odd to see him tearing around the yard or climbing a tree in a suit and tie, but what the hey, scaring the neighbors is nothing new.)

I got remarried the next year, on a beach in Mexico and, of course, we talked about weddings again. We had many funny conversations (including one where he asked me why we weren't going to play games and hide everyone's shoes during the ceremony like at dad's wedding - uh...???) but my favorite was this one:

Havoc: When I grow up, I'm going to marry Dora the Explorer.
Me: Why? (Wondering if I should point out that Dora is, er, a person of the cartoon persuasion.)
H: Mom, she is so cool! She speaks Spanish! And she does all kinds of stuff like having adventures - and have you seen her?! She's pretty.
Me: Oh, so you like Latina girls?
H: Huh?
Me: Hispanic girls. Girls who look like Dora. You know, girls who look like the girls in Mexico.
H: Yes, and I'm going to have a black son. So he can have his hair in braids. Not girl braids. BOY braids.
Me: Hmmmm. Are going to adopt this baby boy?
H: No. Her tummy will get big and we will have a black son.
Me: Well, if you marry a girl who looks like Dora and you have a baby together, then that baby will look sort of like you and sort of like her. Not black.
H: (rolling his eyes at me) Mom, by the time I'm old enough to get married, they'll know how to let peach persons like me have black children.

I am hopeful that the world, indeed, will know how to let peach persons like him have black children by the time he's old enough to marry. What a lovely vision, don't you think? I LOVE the way my child looks at the world. Havoc is not your average bear. And I bring this up, because I've found the perfect wife for him! She's not a cartoon character; she's a real, live girl. She's ethnically Chinese, not Hispanic - but oh, she's brilliant and quirky! I love her. I know he would love her. Her name is Nora (which rhymes with Dora - see it's a match made in heaven!) If only arranged marriages were still in vogue! I would so be negotiating with mimi smartypants right now!
Peace.

Career Day

Guess who was a guest speaker at the elementary school's Career Day today?
You got it! Me.
I spoke to four different third grade classes (for twenty minutes each - yikes!) about what it's like to open your own business and then the kids got to ask questions. They were great. You could tell the teachers had gone over some sample questions before hand and that they were limited to one question apiece. In the first class, I could see two boys debating their questions almost like they were fighting. Turns out they were daring each other to ask me about my lip ring but neither one wanted to waste their question or get in trouble. They were thrilled when I brought it up myself - but then argued about who won the dare.
Several of the girls drew pictures of hearts and butterflies and slipped them to me as they were filing out of the room. Turns out that I already knew several of the kids and have taught them how to knit - which made them minor celebrities in the class. It was all a lot of fun.

During one of the breaks, I noticed that there was a list where the kids had apparently had to write down what they wanted to be/do when they grew up. There were many, many vets on that list, several nurses, soliders, mechanics, and of course performers (country music star, rock star, movie star). Not one person had written down "Knit Shop Owner" but several kids said as they were leaving that they wanted to be just like me. I'd like to think that means I've inspired a couple of them to open their own businesses when they grow up. However, it's possible that they meant when they grow up they want to wear lip rings and flip flops and get chocolate bars as thank you presents from the teachers. I suppose we'll have to wait twenty years to find out!
Peace.

Marketing Strategies I Don't Understand

Chicken Poop $3.99.
That's what the sign says.
My boys swore that they saw the sign last week, too, with their grandmother - only Havoc insisted it said, "Chicken Poop Lip Balm."
Sweet Hubby chalked it up to a disgruntled employee. And then.... I went to Walgreen's today for Epsom salts and this was sitting on the check out counter. Apparently, I am the last woman on the planet (besides my mom) to find out about this hot new trend. I think I must not be the normal consumer, because somehow putting the words 'butt' or 'poop' in a product's name does not compel me to purchase it. I fail to see the 'genius' in potty marketing. My children, on the other hand, have helped make this man the millionaire I'm sure he is. Sigh. I would ask "What is this world coming to?" but I'm afraid the answer is clearly, "Poop." One year (when I was ten?) the hottest ingredient in cosmetics was baby oil. Everything had baby oil. Later it was aloe vera. I missed the transition from plant to poo - but I'm convinced that jojoba had something to do with it. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't jojoba swedish for 'bat guano?'

What will they think of next? Wait! Don't answer that. I don't think I want to know.
Peace.

Race Pictures

Blogger relented. Here is a picture of Team Tutu in all of our pre-race glory.

Does this give you ANY idea of how crowded it was? You can barely even see the corral fence there but essentially the people in collared shirts on the left are in the process of getting infected with Half-marathonitis.

Here I am with VBGF in back and C is for Coffee front left. I think C is for Coffee is worried that I might bend over and heave into one of those strategically placed garbage cans, but I was fine.

This one is my favorite. VBGF ran with me for 11 miles but then I sent her on. I knew I'd finish then and she needed to push herself. She crossed way before me but she waited just on the other side of the finish line so she could be there with me at that moment. We don't even have our medals yet in this picture. It was an amazing experience. I'll do it again next year! Join me?

Peace.

The Race Gods Love Me

Or maybe they love YOU! They love somebody.
Blogger, however, hates somebody. I cannot get it to upload any pictures. Waaanh.
I have some great pictures! Pictures I can't show you. Like, pictures of how many freaking people there were! Twenty-two thousand people already sounded like a lot to me - but I have to tell you, on Saturday it felt more like there were 22 kazillion people there! Ok wait - I have to back up. Let me 'splain you: running is contagious. You go to a big race to cheer a wacky friend on one year and next thing you know, it's a year later and you are on the wrong side of the corral fence in newish running shoes feeling like you're going to throw up. You look desperately at the lovely folks who showed up to support you and your only comforting thought is, "Next year. Next year, you'll be on this side." That's how this race has grown so big, so fast.

In my little corner of the running world, the infection began with VBGF. We had done triathlon training together many years ago and I knew she'd gone on to the Half-marathon. I'd heard about her other friends inexorably falling into her running orbit. I wished them luck from afar. I'm not really a runner. I only put up with running because I like the other two out of three triathlon events. I naively thought that 'not being a runner' made me immune to anything that uncoupled the word 'marathon' from the only two words that should precede it (i.e. 'Star Trek'). Hah! Little did I know that I was primed for infection by my very resistance to the idea of being a real runner! Never mind that the Half is 13.1 miles of the event I like the least. Never mind that I'm not a jock. Never mind everything I thought a Half-marathon was. For the first time in the five years VBGF has been doing this, I actually went to the race with her last year instead of sending her off with 'good luck' hugs or emails.

Imagine my surprise when the folks who lined up for the Half were all shapes, all sizes, all ages, and all abilities. ALL. The marathoners looked like marathoners (i.e. NOT like me) but the Half-marathoners looked like everybody. EVERYBODY. There were grandmas and kids. There were fat people, and skinny people, and people in wheel chairs, and people with no hair from chemo, and people with prosthetic limbs, and people pushing strollers, and even people in costumes! They all looked nervous at the start and triumphant at the finish. It is practically impossible to look at all that and not wonder, "Well, if they can all do this, why can't I?" And you know what? The answer was, "There is NO reason that you can't. You can. You, Lilymane, could be one of those triumphant folks crossing the finish line." That's how it happened. That is why this past Saturday morning, I was standing on the inside of corral #17 instead of on the outside. I stood there well rested, well fed on Gatorade and PowerBars, with no more excuses because even the weather was perfect. PERFECT. I stood there next to my Team Tutu training buddies wondering if I was the only person who felt the need to pee and hurl at the same time. I hugged my support crew over the fence and we were OFF!

The race runs smack dab through the center of Nashville. It starts in front of Centennial Park and finishes at the Coliseum (home of the Tennessee Titans). The good folks of the Music City really get into this race. There are official bands (sponsored by the race organizers) every mile to mile and a half - playing music, encouraging the runners, having a good time. In addition to that, there are people with guitars in front of houses, or dulcimers and banjos, or even folks who set up huge stereo systems (my favorite was the family that blasted A Flock of Seagulls). It is an amazing experience to be cheered on by thousands and thousands of strangers. If you have your name on your shirt, the crowd will cheer you on by name! There are posters everywhere saying things like "You can do it!" and "We believe in you!" and also funny ones like "We know a short cut" and gross ones like "Fart - you'll run faster!"

There is quite a bit of wackiness to this race. Maybe there is to all big races. Maybe I'll be all blasé about it next year, but there were times when I was quite overwhelmed by the banners with encouraging bible verses and by the well-meaning volunteers shoving these at me and by the John Deere cheer leaders shouting "Git 'Er Done!" But then there were the plumbers! I wish I'd gotten a picture of these guys. There were two men running in fat suits - with well-defined clefts shown off by costume jeans sewn low on their false butts - with a furry tuft attached just above their fabric cracks. They ran with plungers in their hands. It was so wrong, yet... oh, so funny. They finished! In fat suits! With plungers! There was NO WAY I was going to drop out if they could do it. It's that kind of race. Hard. Hilly. Fun. Crazy.

It is the perfect synthesis of individual challenge and communal effort. I got so much out of this race: renewed self-confidence, a tour of Nashville, great time with family and friends, a substantial medal, and the chance to pass the infection on. Already the Ninja Princessa, Chaos, and C is for Coffee are talking about doing the race next year!

Peace.

The Race Gods Hate Me

The first race I ever ran was a five-miler on a Thanksgiving morning (somewhere in the neighborhood of 11 or 12 years ago). I woke up to thunder and lightning two hours before the race. Secretly inside, I was completely relieved to have such terrible weather. I assumed they'd call the race off and I'd be off the hook. My husband at the time (<--now familiar to my friendly internets as 'Ole Tapioca Head') laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. "You obviously know NOTHING about your fellow runners. The race will not be called off and you know what? Some people would still run even if they DID call the race off." I pointed out the lightning in vain. He chuckled, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I stomped around putting on my running shoes and the most obnoxious lipstick color I could find. (Sidenote: it is my firm belief that the brighter my lipstick the faster I run.) I met my training partner (none other than the most lovely VBGF) and we went to the race. Guess what? (Sidenote #2: every time I say 'guess what' VBGF says 'chicken butt' and it makes me laugh every time!) Anyway, the race was not called off. I came home to some 'I told you so's' but I didn't pout too long because all in all the race was good. (Great even - I mean, I'm still in this crazy sport, right?)

My next first race was a triathlon. They HAVE to call those off if there's lightning. Guess what? (chicken butt - ha ha ha) The race gods decided that instead of challenging me with lightning they would (fellas, cover your eyes for a second if you're squeamish) see what I thought about getting my period early. Swim! Bike! Run! - with Cramps! and Clotting! For the record, I thought it sucked donkey balls. (Ok fellas, you can open your eyes again.)

Now I am in my third first race. You know, the half-marathon I've been panicking about for way too long? I have loudly announced for MONTHS that if my cycle did not cooperate then the race gods could just bite me because there was no way I'd run the race. So guess what? (chicken butt - ha ha ha - see I told you it made me laugh every time) The race gods have gone back to their conventional weapons. There is now a 70% chance of thunderstorms for Saturday - starting around 3 am! And I don't wear lipstick any more! Worse - I have a lightning rod in my lip (um, and metal elsewhere)! Do you think that pierced persons like me are more likely to be struck by lightning? You know, because I needed something else to worry about besides whether or not I can actually run 13.1 miles?!!! Gah.

This is my last pre-race post. (<--That's a whacked phrase. Everything is hitting my funny bone. I think I'm a little wound up. Nervous. Punchy even. Oh lordy, someone find me a paper bag! Breathe, Lilymane, breathe!) Y'all think of me on Saturday, ok?
Peace.

Wasabi and the Bandit

Rachel-across-the-street (friend to the Ninja Princessa) has a new dog* named 'Bandit'. Fluffy and silent, that's his motto. He looks fierce doesn't he? He fell into Wasabi's water bowl and couldn't get back out. Had to be rescued by two ten year old girls - that's how fierce and tough he is. Wasabi looks a little worried about Mr. Cuteness moving in on his territory, doesn't he?
Have no fear, Wasabi-Wan, we wouldn't trade you for the world - even if you are a Bounce-snorting fiend.
Peace.
*I assume he's a dog. He's awfully small to be a dog though. And quiet. I haven't heard him make a peep. Perhaps he's a squirrel.

Crack For Dogs

I am sad to report that my dog is an addict. I ignored the warning signs. I picked up the toilet paper shreds and soggy, doggy-slobbered, cardboard paper towel tubes and complacently thought, "Puppies will be puppies." Worse! I enabled. TP in bulk from Sam's. What was I thinking?



Who knew that TP was merely a gateway substance? Who knew that a little recreational paper product use would quickly turn into some serious laundry product snorting?

This is my dog. This is my dog on Bounce.
He is a laundry-loving fool.

See Me Not Panic

See Lilymane run.
Oh wait - you can't - because she's not running. Again.
YIKES! I fooled the weather the other morning by running at 5:30 am - BEFORE the rain got its act together. Unfortunately, that tipped my hand and since then it's rained everyday earlier and earlier. This morning the rain started at 2 am and all I could do was think, "Ok, Rain and Thunder. You win."
Today was my last day for a 'longish' run. I had wanted to do four miles and then take the rest of the week off. Instead, all I've got in my logbook this week is piddly little one and two mile sprints between rain showers. That makes me nervous. THIRTEEN (point one) miles on Saturday! And I haven't even done thirteen cumulatively in the last two weeks! I am trying not to panic. (Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic.)
I'm trying not to hyperventilate. (Because passing out never solved anything.) I don't have a paper bag handy so I've substituted this electronic blog instead. "Breathe s-l-o-w-l-y Lilymane," says the good voice. The evil voice says, "What the f**k are you gonna do if it's raining on SATURDAY?"
Oh please, anyone who has cred with the weather gods, will you kindly put in a good word for overcast and cool - but not raining on Saturday in the lovely metropolis of Nashvegas, home of the Country Music (Half-)Marathon? THANKS!
Peace.

Signs and Odd Friends

Today's theme - as summed up by Dr. Suess: From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.

"Be nice to strangers. Visit your in-laws." - billboard last week
"It's a wine bong." - said the manager of the restaurant the other night
"I lost my cottage cheese." - said VBGF out of the blue last night
"Where did I put the rest of my face?" - said C is for Coffee on the phone

I'm not sure how one loses cottage cheese or part of one's face and I certainly have no idea what one could possibly do with a wine bong - but I'm beginning to think that the billboard should have said, 'Be nice to strangers. Visit Lilymania.'

Peace.

Irish Pub Bands In America

Saw this sign when we went to Mulligan's the other night -

Def Leprechaun - cracked me up. Had to share. Peace.

Does This Ever Happen To Y'all?

I'm cleaning the dishes and I look down and SCREAM!! I thought it was alive. When my heart stopped racing, I looked a little closer. No wonder the sink wasn't draining.






Jabba the Hutt. Stuck in the garbage disposal. Under the breakfast dishes.

Yeah. It's one of THOSE days.

Peace.

Time Keeps On Slippin', Slippin', Slippin'

Not long ago I was teaching a bunch of 9 year olds how to knit. I don't know if you've seen 9 year olds knit - but they get things pretty tangled sometimes. I told them that when that happened, what they needed to do was hold their knitting up in the air and let it dangle and untwist, just like when the phone cord gets twisted. Eight pairs of eyes went BLINK.
"But phones don't have cords," one little cherub said.
"Er, right. But they used to and what you had to do was - oh just hold up your knitting like this."

My kids think the house phone is "lame" because you can't play games on it, you can't take a picture with it, and it doesn't even tell the time. I still think the house phone is cool because it doesn't weigh two pounds or have a four inch, permanent antenna on the top and I'm not tethered to the wall! How is it that phones can make me feel so old?

I was always the youngest in my crowd in school. I went to boot camp when I was 17. I married a man five years older than I was. I got carded trying to buy a ticket to an 'R' rated movie when I was 30! I am NOT used to feeling old. I am certainly not used to being made to feel old. But recently? The hits, they just keep on coming.

My twentieth high school reunion is in two weeks. How is THAT possible? Twenty years - fwoosh. May 4th - my senior prom was on May 4th and that's the day our reunion starts. By April 28th we're supposed to have a thousand word essay turned in on what we've been doing for twenty years. Homework. On top of everything, they assign us homework! I have to write a paper - about myself.

I know. I know. I blog about myself all the freakin' time, so how hard could this be? It's hard, I tell you. Darn hard. I don't know what to write. "Tell us what you've done and how you've done it," say the instructions. Gulp. I've done lots - but mostly the hard way. With lots of making mistakes and backtracking and ending up somewhere totally unexpected. I don't want to write about that! The instructions also say we can be creative and write our essay in Chaucerian verse or in the form of a sonnet. (Sidenote: What is UP with people wanting sonnets written? Is a sonnet like the new black or something?) Oh Man. I have to write about 20 years of bumbling around and be clever about it? Think Lilymane, think. Think, think, think.

Ok, I'm thinking of writing something like this:
"But was iz? Iseut? Ere were sewers? The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish." -Finnegan's Wake

Joyce was clever. Very clever. So clever, in fact, that few people understand him at all (even with all the linky poohs that are available on the web nowadays) and yet all kinds of people pretend to understand what the heck he was talking about because they don't want other people to see that they are not clever enough to understand James Joyce! That's my goal. I want to write 1,000 words brilliantly describing my last twenty years and I want my brilliance to be so apparent and universally acknowledged that no one mentions the fact that what I wrote is utterly incomprehensible. THAT'S the miracle I want to accomplish. By Friday. This Friday. This Friday which happens to be the day before the race . Which I'm also not ready for. I don't feel ready for anything, despite the fact that I've had years in which to prepare!

Oh, oh, oh - and here's another fly in the ointment (eww, I hate that image - I can't believe I typed it). You may or may not remember that Sweet Hubby is recently back from 2 weeks or so in New Zealand (where his company is based). Guess who has to go BACK to New Zealand? This time for FIVE weeks. Five weeks starting the day before my high school reunion (and spanning the Ninja Princessa's birthday, the end of school, my cousin's wedding, and the first week of summer). Just take one little, teeny, tiny, itty bitty guess. (Hint: not me.)

If I were the kind of gal who was into taking mind altering substances I think I would definitely be looking for a bottle of St. Joseph's Valium for adults this morning. Heck - I'd spend the next two weeks taking whatever it is that s-l-o-o-o-w-s time down and then the next five weeks taking whateveritisthatspeedstimeupagain! Sadly I have no time machine (chemical or otherwise). I guess I'll just spend all that time whining, er, blogging.
Peace.

My Life As Rendered By Ionesco Et Al

Absurd. I tell you my life is absurd. I'm practicing my line "Well, of all things!" And I'm taking bets on who shows up first, a Rhinoceros or Godot.

My ex has 'fired' his attorney and 'is dropping' the custody case. And by 'fired' I'm pretty sure he means 'refused to pay' and 'is dropping' is clearly a code phrase for 'isn't pursuing until January 2007'. (I predicted this might happen.) What my ex fails to understand (because he has this for brains) is that legal matters do not work that way. I don't actually know how they work - or even that they do work - but I do know that things are not progressing the way my ex assumes they should.

Here is the email I just got from my lawyer:
"You need to tell your ex to call his attorney as he is still his attorney of record!" because this is the email that she got from my ex's attorney:
"I cannot get my client to respond. Please have your client tell my client to call me. "

I am paying thousands of dollars to be in third grade again?!!!! I have now read this email about 20 times and my reaction is still, "You've got to be kidding me." I am supposed to call my ex and pass on the message that he needs to call his lawyer so his lawyer will know what to say to my lawyer who is waiting for answers to the counter petitions to my ex's original (and ridiculously false) petitions whose only purpose is to take my children away from me?!
I fantasize about writing back and saying "I'm not gonna," or "He started it."

I suppose that what I'll really do, though, is call and leave him a message to call his attorney. I'm such a lemming.

Oh, look! A rhinoceros. Well, of all things!
Peace.

Cap'n Jack Sparrow (In Miniature)

Remember when I told you which treasures the children grabbed to take to shelter with them during the tornados and I told you that Havoc took his beloved picture of himself? Here it is:

A Johnny Depp Mini-Me? Ok, Ok, so maybe it's not quite the link to Johnny Depp photos that author and fantabulous blogger Joshilyn Jackson was looking for, but it's all I've got. And for the record, since she is very particular about ratings - I have to say this G-rated pic falls well within her target PG-13 category. I was a little stumped about how to write an ode (sonnet, whatever) to J.D. that did all of the things Joshilyn was looking for! Clearly, DebR had no such trouble. However, I have something that DebR doesn't have - even with all of her hiakus, limericks, and odes (sonnets, whatever) : I have a joke! You heard me right. As a bonus feature I'll even throw in the joke that Havoc loves to tell while staggering around dressed as a pirate. (Sidenote - Havoc, at 7, doesn't quite understand why Jack Sparrow staggers. He thinks it's maybe because Cap'n Jack was born with 'sea legs' that he HAD to grow up to be a pirate. After all, you can't have a land job if your legs are permanently flimsy.) Ok, so here's his joke (and you'll just have to imagine the staggering, the dimple, and the pirate accent):

Q: What kind of socks do pirates prefer?

A: Arrrrrrrrgyle, Matey!

Hahahahahaha. Pfew. Ok then. I'm done now. Peace!

In Which Lilymane Is Almost Struck By Lightning

Guess what?
It only LOOKED like it was done raining.
Ha ha. The lightning and thunder and rain were lurking. Just waiting for me to even THINK about running. In fact, when I came back in I had to turn off and unplug my computer, there was that much lightning. You know how I said the kids were freaked out this morning? And the dog? Well you can just add Lilymane to the list of Those Officially Freaked Out!
Guess what else?
I need to take a shower. I'm a mess. But I'm a little worried that the lightning is still lurking. I plugged my computer in to test things out a bit.

Haven't been hit by lightning yet. Ha. Sissy lightning. Too chicken to come in the house after me, eh? You're only big, bad Lightning when I'm outside being blown all around by your buddy Wind. Is that it?




(Shhh. Do you hear any thunder? Does it sound close? I think maybe they're truly gone this time. Or at least further out than lurking range. Do you think they could come back before I could shower? I can rinse off really, really fast. That would be pretty safe, wouldn't it? Keep your fingers crossed, ok? )

Peace.

Whatever It Takes, Right?

This sign was in San Fran and it cracked me up. It helps me when I need to get out and run but don't want to. Like today. Only today I have an excuse. It's still raining. There's no more hail, but it's still raining (and thundering a little). I didn't run yesterday because it was raining then too. Only it got sunny (i.e. steamy) in the afternoon and I could have run but it's so hard to run when it's almost 90 and steamy. Whine. Whine. I told myself (promised myself even) that I would run today.
Sad. I hate to break a promise to myself. But did I mention it's still raining (and thundering a little)? What a fair weather runner I've turned out to be.

I could mention that I have new shoes that I don't want to get all mucky. I got new shoes because the guys at the store where I've been buying my running shoes for 20 years (yikes!) told me the cushion on my old ones was COMPLETELY blown. I said, "Really? How can you tell?" I was made to understand that the lack of cushion in my shoes was so obvious that anyone with eyes could have seen. From miles away. Apparently I have no eyes. Even so, I trust these guys. Blind faith? I dunno. They sold me my first pair of running shoes - the ones I took to boot camp. They are both coaches and sell just running stuff. It's not a sporting goods store: no baseballs or soccer cleats or anything. It's all running all the time. I don't think they need a billboard to make them laugh so they can run. They probably don't even think about whether their new shoes (which look EXACTLY like the old ones to people without eyes) will get mucky. I suspect they just run. Like I should be doing right now. Instead of blogging about how I'm not running yet.

EEEEEEK! The race is in 9 days. Nine. Days. The running shoe guys told me that one thing that newbie half-marathoners do is that they don't 'taper'. They get in too much mileage in the last couple of weeks. Whew. Lucky me. THAT's not my problem. Of course, when they told me to 'taper', I don't think they meant for me to 'stop running completely'. The running magazines have helpful articles that address every problem but mine. They cover how to force yourself to taper (key - ease off on the training, do NOT put in too much mileage) , how to come back from an injury (key - ease back into training, do NOT put in too much mileage), how to get better race times (key - ease off on the mileage but run FASTER in training), etc. Not one of the articles answers the plea, "Help! I've stopped running and I can't start back up!"
It's just a wee bit intimidating to realize I'm in a sport where apparently every single person (besides me) has to be cautioned about running TOO MUCH.

You know how the Red Cross gets people to donate blood? Well, I think I should get a bunch of runners to come in and I could suck the motivation out of them and store it for people like me, people who, for whatever reason, need a motivation transfusion. I'd give all the donors t-shirts. And pins when they've donated enough motivation. (Have you earned your Five Marathon Pin yet?) Yeah, yeah, that'd work.

Dang. It's stopped raining. I guess I better go run (even without a transfusion.) But y'all? If you happen to have extra running mojo that you're not using today, you could go ahead and send it down this way.

Peace.

It's Raining Again

My kids are freaking out. So is the dog. They are all hovering near the bathroom, just in case they should need to jump in the tub and pull the mattress over them again.
There are no tornados. I promise. I've showed them the news. They believe me (sorta but not really), but they still want to be close to the tub, just in case. There are no tornados. There is thunder. And lightning. And even some hail. But no tornados.
"Mom! The air is GREEN! I'm going to play cards in the bathroom on the floor, ok?"
"Honey the air is green because it's morning and it's dark and we have green stuff everywhere - see the trees and the ivy and the wisteria? The light is filtering through the clouds and then through all of that. It's a different green than the tornado green."
"You want to play cards with us? We'll let you go first. Hey, Wasabi's taking up all the room in the tub!"
I've told them I'm so confident that this storm is nothing to worry about that I've left all the computers and the tv plugged in - and on - so they can check the weather. See, I'm even blogging?
"Hey mom, we're going to let Havoc go first, ok?
I better go give them some extra love. How many hugs do you think it will take to erase the fear of tornados? I better get started.
Peace.

Chaos = Calvin

I used to love Calvin and Hobbes. And then...something happened. The cartoon was made flesh. And his name was Chaos.

Don't get me wrong. I guess I still love Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin is whacky and everyone needs a Hobbes in their life. It's just that it's a little different for me now that I live with it everyday. I am not exaggerating. Chaos was given a stuffed lion on the day he was born and I suspected nothing. Not a thing.

ChaosLion (whose name is more euphonious in real life) has a mane the exact same shade as Chaos' hair. More than once (or twice or even a dozen times) I have leaned over to kiss a sleeping Chaos and gotten a mouth full of lion fuzz instead. Chaos used to assure me that ChaosLion liked kisses so it was ok. In fact, ChaosLion liked goodnight kisses far longer than Chaos would tolerate them. I used to LOVE to listen to the two of them talking. It cracked me up and probably would have worried me some if not for Calvin and Hobbes. Once, when Chaos was 4 and up waaaaay past his bedtime, I went in to shush him. He said, "Mom, it's not me! Tell ChaosLion to stop roaring. It's keeping me awake and he won't listen to me!" Hmmmmm.

I kept the Calvin and Hobbes books on the TOP shelf because I didn't want Chaos to get any ideas about flame throwers and babysitters! Maybe what everyone else has always liked about Calvin and Hobbes is that Calvin is an archetypal (archetypical?) Boy. I don't know. I thought he was mental and it cracked me up. Now? Things I thought were freakin' hilarious when Calvin did them are, in real ife, annoying (and sadly, still freakin' hilarious). I'll give you a case study. (Ever see the strips where Calvin has to be in a picture?)
I should probably explain that the Quality Inn was a bit odd. They told us they had given us a 'suite' with a jacuzzi - but they didn't mention that they had replaced one of the four BEDS out in the middle of the room with the tub. No kidding. I'm sitting on one bed taking a picture of my family in the 'spa'.









I ask you. Is this normal?












Or this?













Or this? I try not to laugh because it only encourages him - and he has learned (by earning himself weeks of extra chores) that I won't tolerate his silliness in formal portraits or at Thanksgiving. Still. Did you do this when you were a kid? I didn't. It didn't occur to me!
Also - I have to point out how cool the pool water is! Wouldn't that be an awesome quilt detail?

Well, if you ever want to meet Calvin and Hobbes in real life, I have a boy and a lion I would be glad to loan you for your next family photo op.
Peace.

Shoes, Penance, and Chaos' New Look

I have a dear friend, let's call her 'C is for Coffee', and yesterday I got to see her for the first time in months. Our original plan was to split a Salmon Caesar Salad but we got distracted by shoes! Look at these! Aren't they a great reason to skip lunch (and um, my posting responsibilities for the day)?

And since my shoes (cute as they are) aren't really enough blogging penance and also, since I'm in a picture posting mood - here is a picture of Chaos' new look:

Ok, Ok. I didn't really pinch his head off for getting suspended. He just didn't want his picture taken. And I'll tell you why. Remember how Chaos used to look like Ron Weasley? Remember how I surrendered somewhat gracefully when I lost the Hair War and let my 13-year old have some control over his image? Well, during the War, many of the battles were about image/perception/behavior. I pointed out that if he looked like a thug/slacker he was more likely to act like one and/or be treated like one. He pointed out that his look was 'cool' and only completely old and square people like me thought he looked like a thug/slacker and he didn't care about their opinions. (Truth? He made his point in much more polite terms - but that is essentially what he was saying.) He's a good kid with good grades and I allowed as how he could have some more control over his image - hence the scraggly hair, the saggy jeans, and the obnoxious t-shirts. The conditions were that 1) he had to keep his hair clean and out of his face (need I say we later disagreed about exactly how 'out of his face' was defined?), 2) he had to wear clothes I considered appropriate to functions important to me (e.g. Thanksgiving Dinner and church), and 3) his 'bad boy' image did not get to translate into 'bad boy' behavior. There was probably a bit of a gray area in telling him that if he got into 'trouble' he would have to cut his hair. His grades dropped ever so slightly and we had to have follow up amendments defining how big of a grade slide counted as 'trouble'.

However, good kids with (just slightly less) good grades can still make bad choices when angry at being bullied in embarassing ways. Instead of telling the bullies to stop, instead of coming to a teacher, administrator, parent, or coach, and after putting up with it as long as his proto-coping skills and newly minted testosterone would allow - Chaos told the two kids that he would shoot them if he had a gun. This caused him to get into 'trouble' with no gray area WHATSOEVER.

He is lucky he was not expelled. He knows it. I certainly know it. I was a youth minister when Columbine happened. How can a threat like that not be taken seriously today??? Oh my boy. My angry, embarassed, smart-in-some-ways-and-not-in-other-ways boy. I love you. But we're not letting any of this slide. The school has been fantastic. The teachers all said he is respectful, and a leader, and a little silly in a good way, and they like him very much. The administrators said they believe he is a good kid who made a bad choice and they want him to stay in their school and they want to help him learn some skills for navigating the rocky road that is middle school (and high school and life!) The Vice-Principal told me that he stood up straight, looked her in the eye, and told her the exact truth about what he'd said. She said she was very impressed with that show of character. She said he truly understood the severity of the situation and he was honestly remorseful. She reassured me as not only an experienced Vice-Principal, but also as a mother of grown sons, that as serious as this is, it would be ok.

When I picked him up from school (just before the tornados), he wasn't sullen or pouty or obnoxious in any way. He told me he was sorry. He hadn't meant the threat, but he'd wanted them to stop and leave him alone. He also admitted he was angry about lots of stuff and that it had come out indirectly. My mother (who is a therapist and also his biased grandmother) spent an hour talking to Chaos that night. She was surprised at how well he was handling everything. He talked to her about what had happened, about what he could have/should have done instead, about his new restrictions, and about his feelings. VBGF (who is, as you may remember, a seventh grade math teacher) talked to him, too, and reassured me that I wasn't being naive - that he is a good kid, that this will be ok, and that she believes with all her heart in him. I needed to hear all of those things - because when the Vice-Principal first called I was completely shaken. Chaos had been so well behaved at home for two or three weeks. Not in a fakey way either. He had a genuinely good attitude about things and was showing some proactive kindness, generosity, and hop-to around the house. He was being so responsible that I had finally given in three days before and let my sons use their money to buy Air Soft Guns.

I had been EXTREMELY reluctant to allow these, in my opinion, real-looking guns. They are modern BB guns. Only safer, actually. They shoot soft foam pellets. But they look real, the foam pellets still sting a bit sometimes, and darn it - I was hit in the face with a BB gun as a kid and I don't like the idea of them. LOTS of kids here have them. Heck - LOTS of kids around here have real hunting guns and like to shoot animals with them. ICK!!! At least my kids aren't interested in that at all. But they LOVE army games. They love strategy and weapons and running around. Laser-tag, nerf guns, paintball - they LOVE stuff like that. After talking to other parents (and trying NOT to remember how my guy friends in high school had loved nothing better than having bottle-rocket wars in the middle of the night at constructions sites!!!) I finally agreed the boys could buy these guns - BUT I had LOTS of rules. They had to buy protective eyewear with their own money too. They had to sign the contract with all of the rules printed out on it and there was a zero tolerance policy. No skirting the lines. They muck about with ONE safety rule, or aim at one animal, or in any way shape or form break a rule - that was IT. No more guns. Permanently.

Arrrgh. Can you imagine the first privilege I took away? The airsoft guns were gone before I even went to pick him up from school. Chaos lost his investment (almost a hundred bucks!) and he lost the privilege for everyone. Mayhem will get his money back, but there won't be any more airsoft guns in my house. When I did pick Chaos up from school, we went straight to get his hair cut. (I didn't know about the tornados heading our way at the time.) My ex had a hissy fit and accused me of embarassing our son, shutting him down so he wouldn't talk, and in general, of being a bad mother while he himself sympathized and wanted Chaos to know how much he 'supported' his son. Ole Tapioca Head will take any position that lets him be the buddy, buddy 'good guy'. I explained very carefully that I had no interest in embarassing or shaming Chaos. I was instituting restrictions that made sense and I was following though on the agreement Chaos and I had made. A deal is a deal and actions have consequences. (What kind of mom would I be if I didn't bring home this lesson on consequences??) One consequence for our son is that his hair, butt-crack revealing jeans, and snarky t-shirts are gone. At this very moment he's at school in cargo shorts (that don't even need a belt to stay up), a collared polo shirt, and with hair that looks like

In truth, he misses the sloppy pants and his beloved "I'm so dark I fart bats" shirt more than he misses his hair. He told me that at least he won't be so hot this summer.

I'll say one last thing. I do worry very much about boys, violence, and stupidity. I didn't grow up around boys at all. When I started dating them, they completely baffled me. It's not like I was totally prissy. I think I just had a healthy appreciation for reason and safety. Not so the boys I knew. They did stuff like throw explosives at each other and laugh when direct hits resulted in burned clothes and hair. They stole their parents cars in the middle of the night and ran into trees. I totally didn't grok it. And then I had my very own baby boy. And then another. And then another. How do you (and why should you want to) raise a son to be 'normal' if you aren't comfortable with what it means to a 'normal' boy? I was bound and determined to win the nature vs nurture battle. And often, I realize I'm losing. Sometimes it's ok. I have found out that a lot of 'normal' boy stuff is actually ok with me. I've also learned more about raising girls. I know now that it's not totally a nature of boys vs nature of girls issue. I needed all the reassurance that my husband, VBGF, my mother, and the Vice-Principal could give me that Friday afternoon. But ultimately, do you want to know what reassured me the most?

Chaos himself did. Not by saying the right things to the right people a la Eddie Haskell or even by doing the right things like standing up straight and looking folks in the eye. What reassured me most that Chaos was the sweet boy I believe him to be was this. When we finally got home on that long, dark day in the break between the tornados, the kids grabbed a few precious things to keep in the bathroom with them. Mayhem grabbed his totem bear Prometheus and his D&D books. Havoc grabbed Day Horsey, his picture of himself as Capt Jack Sparrow, and his dice. The Ninja Princessa grabbed her copy of Harry Potter and a blanket. Chaos? He grabbed Wasabi's things and yelled down the hall to me, "Mom, the little kids are all set up in this bathroom. Can you come be with them? I've got the dog and I'm going to take him into the other bathroom and get under the counter. He's scared and I think he'd be happier in there but I don't want him to be alone. Ok?" His 'treasure', the thing he cared most about, was to make sure the little ones were ok and were going to be more ok by me coming to be with them - and that the dog was loved and taken care of.

It might be a long and rocky road - and we may be at the very beginning of it - but I think it will truly be ok.

Peace.

It's Not Mary Oliver

TIME
FUCK SPACE AND TIME
BE
WHAT WILL I BE
WHEN
WHAT'S THAT YOU SEE
ME
AND HOW DOES IT GO
SHOW
WE SHOW NOTHING THOUGH
YOU
I CAN'T KNOW YOU
FOOD
JUST SEX AND FOOD
DEATH
IS THOUGHT'S LAST BREATH

by Timothy S. Donahue

It's not M. O., but it's my second favorite poem of all times. For almost fifteen years, it was my favorite and then I read Mary Oliver. Sorry Tim! (Timmy? Mr. Donahue? T.S. Donahue?) Even if it's not my very, very favorite anymore - I still love this poem. I love that it's in all caps to be even (not to scream - handwritten it would look like military handwriting); matter of factual angst; and rhyming in almost a little kid way. It's like an existentialist's hand clapping rhyme - 'Say Say Little Playmate' for black turtleneck wearing folks (or were those the Beatniks?) . Whatever the labels or dress code, I love this poem. I love it so much that it's almost worth getting sued for sticking it here without permission. (I don't know where to go to even ask for permission! Universe, can I have permission to put this, my now-second favorite poem of all times, on my blog? I'll take that as a 'yes' thank you.)
And today? It fits my mood (in a back-to-basics kind of way) so I thought I'd share.
Peace.

What Is Up With Easter Bunny Scarecrows?

There are two of these tall, skinny, painted, made-of-straw Easter Lawn Bunnies in my neighborhood. Are the people who put them there trying to scare something (or someone, like me) away? I am not big on lawn decorations to begin with (<--understatement of the century) - but I seriously hate these skinny, strawy, scary bunnies. Second place winner in the "why oh why, someone please tell me why you would put these in your yard" category are the GIGANTIC, plastic, colored eggs that look like what stegosaurus turds would have looked like if dinosaurs could have pooped in technicolor. Do I even need to mention that the people who have these most horrid of decorations are the VERY people who are convinced that there was a 'War on Christmas'? These are the uberChristians who routinely amaze me with their narrowness and obliviousness. Has no one EVER explained to these folks that the bunnies and the eggs are all PAGAN pre-Christian symbols of spring, regeneration, and fertility? I'm all for celebrating those things myself - but I happen to know that those folks aren't. I like the redemption and resurrection parts of Easter too. I can't really find anything I don't like about Easter - except the lawn bunnies and dinosaur droppings! Gah. I guess I'll go explode some Peeps in the microwave to get my frustrations out.
Peace.
Oh, hey - I don't have a microwave, or um... any Peeps. I think I'll take myself to the movies instead!

Happy Easter!

We've packed up the kids and are driving about 4 hours to go to the zoo, a museum, and a pool. We'll probably spend the whole time clustered around the table playing games but it's good to pretend we might do something a little more mainstreamly cultural.
Peace!

In Which I Become A Grammar Nazi (Of Sorts)

Maybe it's hereditary?
When I was about 11, I sent my paternal grandfather a letter - an actual letter, not an obligatory thank you note - telling him about my new school and life in general. He sent it back to me with my grammar mistakes circled in red pen. Yeah, that was the last letter he ever got from me. I continued to correspond with my other grandfather for 15 years, but THAT man? No way. He totally blew it right then and there.

My father was never quite that obnoxious. To this day, he still corrects my French and English and sometimes misses the whole point of what I'm trying to tell him, but I don't get bent out of shape about it. In fact, on occasion I've been able to give as good as I got. One of my favorite moments of all times was getting to correct his correction by being able to explain in complete detail the French grammar rule that he had learned incorrectly. He is a good sport and we've spent hours looking things up together. When this book came out, we sent each other copies that crossed in the mail. I have had to explain (and frequently remind) my father that his parental status may give him the right to correct me forever and ever amen, but it does not extend to correcting other adults, even those related by marriage (e.g. my first husband or my in-laws for heaven's sake!)

"Really Daddy! Don't be rude." I used to say. But what I wanted to say was, "Oh now you've done it! Now I'll have to listen and be sympathetic and reassuring all the way home to smooth his ruffled feathers! Can't you just let it go for once?" My ex was very defensive and I had to put up with a lot of "Who does that man think he is?" after these episodes. My new husband? You know what he does? He says things to my father like "Hey, where's your phone book at?" On purpose. He totally loves getting my dad's goat. I think Sweet Hubby is just angling for a way to work in the phrase 'up with which I will not put' a la Churchill, but so far my father hasn't fallen for it. Falling for it or not, my dad loves my new husband. My father couldn't imagine why a sane man would date a woman with three young sons, but he realized Sweet Hubby was perfect for me when he heard us arguing over which dictionary was authoritative enough to decide our word squabble. He immediately gave us his blessing.

I've never been much of a grammar nazi myself, or so I thought. I decided early on that the grammar nazi gene must skip generations or something. Sure, it made my eye twitch to hear the ladies at daycare tell my son to "lay down", but I didn't ever say anything about it. I was sure that the minute I corrected anyone I'd hear back, "Hey Pot, this is the Kettle. You're black too!" After all, I have creative punctuation and I like to make up words and run-on sentences and fragments are fun!! Recently though, I've come to realize how judgmental I really am. I can forgive dangling participles and random captilization. I can (easily) ignore ignore split infinitives (and pointless paranthetical expressions). Fiddling with idioms or using the completely wrong word, however, grates on my nerves.

The poor lady next to me at the nail salon the other day has things that grade on her nerves. I'm lucky THAT isn't my problem. My problem is that I've realized how much I subconciously believe that the inability to tell the difference between certain words and phrases indicates stupidity. My son, Chaos, drives me batshit by saying things like, "Wow. That musta cost a leg and an arm." He's a smart guy, but I just know that someday he's going to say something like "For all intensive purposes..." and I'm going to LOSE it. Don't those people make you want to SCREAM?!!!!!!!!

The grammar nazi gene has clearly not skipped me although I've only gotten partial expression. Perhaps the gene has been damaged somewhat as it's been transmitted down through the ages? Sadly, I've come to the conclusion that it has skipped Chaos entirely. Or worse. What if the grammar gene is recessive and the malaprop gene is dominant? What if caring about the correct use of homophones is merely a remnant (a vestigal appendage) of a predisposition for grammatical skills? What if the ability to perceive grammatical choices (much less the ability to make 'correct' ones) is becoming extinct while hereditary malapropism is on the rise? What if my ex's genes are more powerful than mine in the long run???

Given the evidence, this is conceivable. Probable even. Chaos' father sent me the following in conclusion to a battle we've been having over how to handle what happened last week. He wrote, "On the subject of [our son], and the consequences of his suspension, I respect your opinion, but I defer in it." Wouldn't it be peachy if he did 'defer'? Alas, I can only conclude from contextual clues (aka scathing remarks earlier in the email) that he really means 'differ'. There is hope for Chaos though, even if his high school English teacher and I have no effect on his malapropishness. I know I worried here about his career options, but just this morning I was told there people like him in major corporate headquarters.

At our Burger King (yes, the same folks who brought you this), the new digital ordering screen has a streaming banner across the bottom that says, "We now except credit cards!!!!!" When I asked the nice manager if she could perhaps change it, she replied, "Naw. There's nuthin' can be done from heyah. You have to talk to the folks at the Big Office. I think they check those things real good." Yes. I'm sure they do. I wonder if they will still be excepting job applications when Chaos is ready to enter the workforce.
Peace.

Still Not Unpacking

I'm still in the midst of garden therapy. Or maybe it's yard therapy, since I'm fairly sure that the extensive gardens I inherited with the house last summer have given up on me. I don't know a thing about actual gardening. I'm pretty good with irises - but as those are quite difficult to kill, I don't think that's much of a feather in my gardening cap.

I've been so unsettled this week after all of last week's sturm and drang. It's helped to cut the grass and water the flowers I can find. It's helped to pull up weeds (or flowers ugly enough that I think they're weeds.) It has helped to do all of this with my son at my side. He has nattered on and on and on about War Hammer and plate mail and chain mail and Roman soldiers and Vikings and face plates and weapons through the ages. We have talked a little about what got him in trouble and we've talked a whole lot about everything else he's interested in. I've needed that reconnection with the earth after last week's fearsome storms. I've needed that reconnection with the sweetness in my son after last week's surprising trouble. I haven't quite figured out a solution for the whole 'gifted' mess I have to untangle for Havoc, but maybe you'll get an earful of that tomorrow.

For now, we're going to fix some lunch and eat in the courtyard and then go lie in the grass. I'll leave you with my very favorite poem of all times, Mary Oliver's Summer Day. "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
Peace.

Drive By Blogging

Today's post is barely a post.
I have so much to say and so much need to say it - but I can't. I can't unpack last week. I can't put it all neatly on the blogging table. Not yet. I will when I can.

When I can - I'm going to rant about the label 'gifted' and the dysfunctional process of acquiring that label for your child.
When I can - I'm going to wail about what it feels like when the school calls to say your child has just earned 3 days of Out of School Suspension.
When I can - I'm going cope with what it was like to be with my children 'locked down' in the school hallways, cowering under gym mats while tornados ripped through our community.
When I can, I'm going to figure out how to answer my children's questions about the tornados that savaged their old school, shredded new brick homes, and killed more than a dozen people in subdivisions not far away.
Today? Today I can't process any of it. I can't do more than this quick blogging pass, even though I have electricity and the cable connection back a week earlier than 'they' thought it would be restored. Today all I can do is take my kids (and three or four of their friends whose parents had to work though the county schools are closed) outside to garden, scooter, play with the dog, and revel in this gorgeous day. Today we're trying to remind ourselves that Mother Nature is good (most of the time). Today we're being grateful to be here to enjoy the day together.
Peace.

8 Miles

NOT to be confused with 8 Mile. I can promise you there won't even be any Eminem on my MP3 player tomorrow when I try to run 8 miles. EIGHT. MILES. In a row. Without anything but me, my cute running shoes and socks, and my Eminem-less MP3 player to power me along. Unless you count VBGF who will be running beside (and probably in front) of me. She might come in handy in case I need her to drag me along or point me out to the ambulance crew.
There are days when I think, "What on earth is up with this running thing anyway?!"
And then remember how much I want to do this. Sigh. Ok 8 miles, ready or not, here I come.
(If I don't post tomorrow, you should guess that there are not dataports in every room in the hospital, no matter what their brochure says.)
Peace.

Oh, The Bad Mommyness

Recently I took all my children shopping at Chez Target. I will try not to wax poetic but you must know how much I love that place. In particular, I laud and magnify the store designer who thought to centrally locate the dressing rooms! Gone are the days of trying to keep four boys from misbehaving while bored out of their gourds in the girls' department as their sister tries on EVERYTHING. I (once and only once) went the route of sending my sons over to the boys' dressing room by themselves. What brand of crack was I smoking that day?! Anyway...

These days it's Target or nothing if I have them all (or even four-fifths of them all) in tow. On this particular day in Target, we were stocking up for spring and early summer. And we weren't the only ones. Maybe it was the tornado outside or maybe it was simply 'the' place to be on a Thursday night after 8, but that back corner where the dressing rooms are was hopping.

Havoc, who is seven, had finished trying on his clothes before all of his sibs - which is not surprising because he likes everything I pick out for him and 8 slims fit him perfectly. He was skipping around being cute and everyone (all 412 of them loitering around the changing rooms) thought he was the bomb diggety. Especially compared to his brothers who were not remotely adorable. Chaos was insisting that any pair of jeans that came in contact with his body above his butt crack were waaaay too tight. Mayhem was complaining about the itchy tags and icky colors of everything. The Ninja Princessa was neither adorable nor a pain in the potatoes - she was just intent on making sure she knew ALL of her clothing options. (If you think that my timing in hitting Target a mere hour before they close was accidental then you have NEVER been shopping with the Princessa before! It's a great way to limit the damage without being the bad guy. Try it on your own Princessa. You will love me for it.)

The other mothers gave me knowing looks and sympathetic smiles as they dealt with their own (pre-)teens. The hordes of older teenagers hanging around all wanted to talk to me about my piercings (and thereby completely fool Target management into thinking they weren't either the best friends or the love-stricken admirers of the two ridiculously beautiful girls handing out dressing room numbers and manning the walkie-talkies.) More than one teenager commented on what a big family we had and more than one mom said something like, "I don't know how you do it. It's all I can do to manage with just two." Right on the heels of one of these comments, up skips Havoc.
"Mom! Mom! Can I have these cute flip-flops? They're right over here!" Then he skips just around the corner and YELLS, "They're blue and gold and say Co-Ro-Na! Oh Mom! Your favorite!! CORONA! Just like the church key you have. Doo da loo da loo loo! Cerveza senor?"
Ok - I do, in fact, have a bottle opener that sings a little song and asks (in a sultry voice) 'Cerveza senor?' (it was some freebie somewhere along the way) and for my whole life bottle openers have been called church keys but... man, that boy's timing! The teenagers thought Eddie was EVEN MORE adorable now and the mothers chuckled.

Oh the bad mommyness of it all! Of course, I told Havoc he could not have Corona flip-flops (and no, they weren't sized for a seven-year old anyway or there'd be waaaay more to this little vignette.) I really, truly hope that I did not leave the impression that it takes alcohol to have a big family (in the first place) or to manage it (in the second place)! And if I compromised on the definition of "above your butt crack", bought Hanes shirts with no tags, bribed the Princessa with her very own copy of Harry Potter on DVD to hurry up, drove through the end of a tornado, put the kids to bed immediately and had a beer (with a twist off cap), then I'm not telling a soul.
Peace.

Go Terps!!!

NCAA CHAMPS in College Women's Basketball! Over DUKE. D-U-K-E!! Go Maryland!
I'm not a rabid sports fan. (Really!) I've managed to see only one or two of the women's games this year - but ya' gotta be true to your school, right?
And it was a hell of a game! Coming back from a 13 point deficit (tying the second biggest comeback ever) in OVERTIME and winning the women's title for the first time in the school's history - with a team that was mostly freshmen and sophomores!!!
Oh Maryland, my Maryland!!! (Did I mention they beat DUKE??)
Peace.

Dangerous Things To Do In San Fran

1. Believe the hotels that say they have a dataport in every room. (Hah!)
2. Stay in a hotel next door to this. (Almost makes up for the lack of dataport.)
3. Allot less than an hour here. (Really I think I almost had a stroke trying to decide what I absolutely couldn't have. I wanted EVERYTHING!!!! An hour is NOT enough time to decide which Angelina fibers you can live without.) *Ok so it's technically NOT San Fran - being on the Monterey Peninsula two hours south of the city and all - but still you were warned. Give yourself more than a fly by in this shop!!!
4. Look up at this too long. It is ridiculously easy to fall in love with a tree.
5. Order a margarita from the Orbit Room if you happen to be allergic to blood oranges, mint, hibiscus, or cranberry! Or if you have any time limits at all. I'm telling you, a margarita from this place is a thing of beauty but a girl could die of thirst while the prissy boy bartender makes the drink just so!! (For a more traditional (and much faster!) marg, try Harvey's!)
6. Rent a really hot Mustang for the week without having a budget for speeding tickets.
7. Eat at 'We Be Sushi - Just Like Mom Used To Make'. (It's the only dangerous thing on this list that I did not personally do. Perhaps they are the best sushi joint in the whole town. It's quite possible. I just wasn't brave enough to find out! (Also? It was 7 am when we got lost and saw that sign. My bravery may be time sensitive.)
8. See V for Vendetta on a Saturday night in the heart of the city and then go to an amazing, pulsing club, get no sleep, fly home through storms, storms, and more storms, and forget (in the turbulence) that Dramamine and beer are probably not so good together!

I'm finally awake. I had a FABULOUS time. I faced my demons in Monterey (and will likely have a quilt to show for it.) I ran along Asilomar Beach (1 hour 12 min and 37 seconds!!) I wandered the Castro with my very best girlfriend. I ate Lobster Bisque at Fisherman's Wharf. I lost my mind in art (color, fabric, ink, fiber!!!) shops. I reconnected with folks I hadn't seen in years and years. All in all, it was a successful, powerful, and transformative pilgrimage.

Peace.