If Only I Had Magic

N is increasingly independent in the mornings. These days she gets dressed, brushes her hair and teeth, takes vitamins and checks her backpack for its essentials pretty much on her own. This morning our paths crossed in the front hall. She was fully-dressed in butterfly pants and a flowered shirt.

I let out an involuntary "Oh, my!" before qualifying it with "you're all about the patterns this morning."

"Yes," she said proudly. "It's butterflies and flowers."

"Yes, it is. It sure is."I contemplated how hard it might be to adhere a MOM DID NOT DRESS ME TODAY note to her back.

"See the butterflies are flying to the flowers to pollinate them," she squinted up her whole face making sure the words were exact. "If only I had magic. I'd tap the butterflies and have them fly in a swirl to the flowers."


Her finger traced the swirling flight path of just one butterfly to a flower's stigmata. With a narrative like that the folks at school can hardly doubt this was an independent, and magical venture she was on. Darn it, because, suddenly I wanted in on that action.

Bitterly Colder-Boulder

Darn it! Yesterday in my email inbox was a note from the Bolder-Boulder coordinators. The Bolder-Boulder is a 10K race every Memorial Day in Colorado. I’ve finished the race seven or eight times. Weddings and babies will occasionally pose a scheduling conflict. More often than not, however, I’m part of a mob of several-thousand runners at the starting line.

I first ran the Bolder-Boulder ten years ago. My friends Lisa and Ann convinced me to give it a go. The race still hits one of the high marks of my year. Even the requisite road-trip to transport me and my running shoes to Boulder is nice. Naomi has grown up enough to enjoy the flat-irons. As a runner, where else would you encounter a “Kegs & Eggs” aid station set up in somebody’s front yard?

When I started this Bolder-Boulder running effort I set the goal of finishing the 10K in 60 minutes or less. Hasn’t happened yet. I came close two years ago with a 63 minute time. (Not that I hold a grudge...but...boy, did I feel like those three minutes were just thumbing their nose at me!)

Anyway, back to my email inbox yesterday, I got a note from the race coordinators. Each year the organizers pull together the Colder-Boulder (5K) at the six month mark from the Memorial Day race. This email was notifying me that my race times qualify for participation in the Colder-Boulder.

Here’s the darn it part: this email landed in lap of a woman in no shape to run a 5K. I have been heavy into yoga and swimming recently. Aside from my occasional 20 minute jump-rope and funk music excursion I’m a dud with the running shoes. Factor in the altitude difference and Sunday's run is a no-go.

I’ve never had a qualifying time to participate in…well…in anything! Adding insult to my injured pride Colder-Boulder race participants get this handsome alpine-fleece cap. After you’ve sweated all over the darned cap, yeh, you get to keep it.

I feel like the girl who just got asked to dance and froze up because she, she can't. It's a bitter pill to swallow having to skip a trip to one of my favorite places on the planet, and the chance to run in a goofy, fun 5K race. Throw in a fashion accessory, like the cap, and it's flat out painful.

I laced up my shoes, for the first time in months, this noon and went running. Should this old girl receive an invitation again some day she intends to be prepared.

Cosmetics Counter

Naomi: What are you doing?

Me: Putting on mascara.

Naomi: Why? You only will get it dirty at work.

Me: Probably true.

Naomi: That's why I don't wear make-up. I would only get it dirty at school.

Me: Good thinking. You're also a little young to wear make-up.

Naomi: Why?

Me: Make-up tries to take older women and make them look younger.

Naomi: Yeh. But that trick doesn't work for you.

Me: Mascara doesn't make me look younger?

Naomi: Not really. Your face always looks more like a twelve year old (pause) just with a whole lot of wrinkles.

Me: Thanks. I think.

Necessary Solitude

I woke up late some time last week, buried my cold nose under the covers and thought: “Humpf, I guess its fall.” Sadly, the warm weather had crested and my cold nose is a harbinger of colder temperatures (and appendages) to come.

Bare branches, shortened day-light, migration and deep-sleep hush the noisy summer chatter. Cold weather inspires a necessary kind of solitude to clear my head a little. With the election behind us, I'm trying to reconcile lofty conversations of politics with my more immediate surroundings. An ambitious goal, I know, but worth a try. Because at the center of each of us lives a small, soft animal trying to survive the cold.

Early Voting

Over my lunch hour I cast an early-ballot at the Lancaster County Election Commission office. The line was long, but things clipped along at a good pace. Stem to stern the line was a 30 minute time commitment. No "I Voted Today" stickers though which was a notable down side.

To sound like a complete geek, I have to say I generally find election days exciting. This year has a particular groundswell but it only offers thematic variations for me. That kind of butterfly feeling I got at the polling booth isn't entirely attributable to the McCain or Obama ticket. Its the sense of being part of something bigger than myself. Voting conjures a similar sense of wonder and purpose I get when standing in a large forest. Its a moment where my place in the fold of something feels exactly right.

On my way out of the Election Commission office I pressed through the heavy glass door. A dry wind kicked up around me and I reveled in a moment of confidence that I had just helped elect the next President of the United States. Not too shabby.

Fall Back

Enjoy sleeping in, folks! Tonight is daylight savings.

Point Well Taken

N and I were getting ready for church this morning. Sunday mornings have a laid back schedule at our house. Sometimes we'll linger over breakfast or surf the internet together before we get dressed. At this point in the motherhood game, however, any schedule that affords lipstick and mascara applications before I'm in the car feels luxuriously laid back.

This morning I put on my dress and donned a pair of shoes with a modest heel, walked out of my bedroom and saw N in the hallway. I rarely wear dresses and N often comments on how lovely I look whenever I put forth the slightest effort toward my appearance. My vanity inspired a sort of slight pause in the hallway. Nothing tacky or gratuitously obvious I just thought I'd linger there, you know, in case I needed to humbly receive praise.

Instead N clucked her tongue, scowled at my shoes and, in all seriousness, said "Don't blame me if you twist your ankle in those things!"

...and a bag of chips

Last March I splurged on a jar of super-duper-face-cleanser. Yes, I had just turned thirty-five. Yes, I was sensitive about my age. And I had one of those moments standing at my bathroom mirror where I gasped at my wrinkled skin, my blotted complexion. I found retail therapy as near as my local Walgreen's cosmetics counter. I was amazed at the options of age defying this and anti-wrinkle that.

Anyway this super-duper-face-cleanser was rather expensive. I rationed it, proportionally, into super-duper small applications. Used my cheek to wipe the jar clean a couple of times. Then proceeded to use the tap water rinsate complete with loosened crusted globs along the edges. No bones about it: last week there was no more super-duper to eeek out. My wrinkles persevered and the cleanser was ka-put.

Yesterday I went to the same retail therapy spot. I gazed at the cosmetic counter and the accompanying anti-wrinkle pricetags. Ouch. I vaguely remembered last March's sticker shock, but, the edges of the memory had grown dim. Somebody told me that happens when you grow older, your memory fails, but I can't remember who said so...

Since the economy is imploding in an icky, stinky mess we all are watching our spending these days. I couldn't justify the cosmetic cost of anti-wrinkle-super-duper cleanser just to stroke my fragile, and aging, ego.

I opted for Noxema. Yes, Noxema, its cheap. You know, it still comes in that big, blue tub. It still pricks at the skin, a little, with its medication. The smell conjures memories of cleansing teenaged, pimple-y pores.

Under that white masque I remind myself that I wouldn't want to stay young forever. I have no longing for my sixteen year old self. The one who would agonize about everything...wonder why nobody liked me...traversed a mental minefield of adolescent self loathing. I like being thirty-five much more than I ever enjoyed sixteen and seventeen. At thirty-five I laugh more, punish less, and love to greater depths than I did twenty years ago. With that white masque covering my face, I reminded myself that thirty-five isn't bad...in fact its pretty good. Then I washed off the Noxema, caught a glimpse of my wrinkly, blotted visage and amended my thoughts. Slightly.

If that thirty-five year old self-love could throw in flawless skin to boot -- just tie a big bow around it, a bag of Doritos and I'd be set for life. Seriously. Given the depth and breadth of cosmetics that promise fabulous skin I genuinely feel I'm on the road there... all I need now is the bow and the Doritos.
_________________________________________

Currently Reading: Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri

Good Advice

Naomi: How come you sometimes treat me like I'm a baby?

Me: Well, I forget what a big kid you are. I used to have to do most things for you and I forget how much you can do on your own now.

Naomi: Yeh.

Me: Like crossing streets on the way to school....

Naomi: ...and calling friends on the phone....

Me: ...packing your lunch...

Naomi: ...letting me walk around the block...

Me: Yeh. Its hard for me to learn how to treat you like a big kid.

Naomi: You should practice, mom. Its the best way you learn new things.

Good Egg

My cousin, Jake, came home to Nebraska this past week. Its the first we've seen Jake in some time. He serves active duty as part of our armed services in Iraq.

There aren't words to describe what its like have him come home, joke around, play basketball in his mom's driveway and then pack up and return to his army post.

Next time you're with your own family joking around, or enjoying this amazing fall weather -- regardless of your politics -- I would appreciate it if you could send a good thought Jake's direction. Like many of his fellow soldiers Jake is a good egg. Our hope is to have him state-side by Christmas.

Late Night Googling Receipe

Step 1. Go to the Google homepage.
Step 2. Type my husband is a pirate into the search engine block.
Step 3. Select the "I'm feeling lucky" search option.
Step 4. Read the detailed account of a woman's dream sequence where her husband skirmishes with and is ultimately stabbed by a pirate.
Step 5. Notice that no one, not even the internet psychics, has offered a response.
Step 6. Laugh-laugh-laugh.

Auto-Racing Wishes for My Girl

I've been thinking about my friends a lot recently. One just welcomed a baby girl. Several showed up to help raise the high-beam of our cabin roof. One leaves on Friday for a two year stint in the Peace Corps. One with her kiddo in a Denver hospital this week. More found on my cell phone speed dial.

Anne Lamott calls that core group of friends your pit crew. Its made up of those people who put you back together, inflate your tires, and check under the hood before they turn you around to face the road ahead.

With the beginning of each school year I watch as my daughter makes and moves away from her friends. I can only hope she has the good fortune to collect a pit crew as amazing as my own.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Naomi: You know, mom, I don't enjoy singing so much as I used to.

Me: Really?

Naomi: Yeh. Ever since I cried that time on stage it isn't so much fun.

Me: I'm sorry to hear that. Singing is something you really enjoyed and I'd hate for anything to ruin that.

Naomi: Yeh, mom, but change is part of life.

Increased Laughter = Increased Joy

Summer reading lists rarely sing the praises of fluff. When asked "so, what are you reading?" I always want to sound like an NPR correspondent. I like thoughtful commentary and gut wrenching sad plot-lines as much as the next person...but occasionally...I get the itch to blaze through a clever but predictable text.

Feeling that itch last week I knew Sophie Kinsella could scratch it. I'm in the middle of The Undomestic Goddess and having a lot of fun with it. Kinsella authored the entire Shopaholic series (which was charming and clever for about 2 1/2 books) and she topples anyone else on my Authors I'd Like to Party With list. Its a short list, really, but she's the best fit for me. Kinsella is clever without being a snob, she throws down endearing characters in hilarious situations and both the author and reader have a good time of it. Her texts occasionally inspire me laugh out loud which adds credence to my Increased Laughter = Increased Joy theory.

Thanks, Sophie! If you were in Lincoln or on Facebook, I'd buy you a drink (or two).

Energy Crisis Kvetch

Okay ... I'm feeling pulled in all sorts of directions today. Three articles in the same day:

• T. Boone Pickens' trip to Lincoln promoting his wind and natural gas powered car Energy Plan;
• A woman driving Lincoln's first an all electric vehicle. The article touts the 14 cent price tag for driving 25-40 miles at a single charge from the nearest outlet; and
• City administrators proposed cut of the LES rate increase of an additional 1%

Beyond the local issue, which conjures my obvious bias, the juxtaposition gives rise to my belief that we're pretty schizophrenic when it comes to any meaningful discussion of energy prices. Because energy (oil, gas, electricity) have been so affordable for so long we want to force it back into their nominal price mold. We also want to save the planet. We also want alternative fuels.

I'm a self-serving-solipsistic person at heart. Ask me to deprive myself of anything and I'll wince. But on this one I don't think we can have it all. We can't refuse to raise electrical rates AND hope to plug our cars into the nearest outlet. We can't create natural gas cars and infrastructure without also seeing significant costs for home heating and electrical generation increase. There is no Walmart or bargain basement deal when it comes to energy prices. You pay what you pay or you figure out how to use less.

My thought? Don't drain your savings to pay your gas bill. Carpool or use mass-transit, moderate the thermostat in the short term. Use your savings to make more lasting solution oriented changes such as buying a more fuel efficient vehicle, upgrading to an Energy Star furnace, adding insulation to your attic.

Because, straight-up, over time energy prices are going nowhere but higher. Sure you'll see some peaks and valleys. As prices get painful enough the blow to the pocketbook will inspire people drive less/moderate their thermostats and prices fall (a little); and surge again as demand increases globally.

Olympic Games

Is anybody else still stunned by the Beijing Opening Ceremonies? The clips I've seen are just exquisite.

Los Angeles hosted the 1984 Olympic Games when I was eleven. I sat inches from the television screen and watched the entire Opening Ceremonies. Music, fireworks, the procession of athletes onto the field, the torch run featuring some guy I had never heard of.

I took particular interest in Mary Decker's 3000 meter run against a bare footed Zola Budd. The media hype leading up to the event was intense but neither woman actually won the race. Decker fell on the field and was unable to continue. Budd finished seventh.

With the United States 1980 Olympic boycott coverage of the 1984 Games was as much about political vendettas as the actual events. Its hard for me to decipher whether I got caught up in the games as much as the allegory. In either case, my running efforts followed in the wake of the 1984 Games. I'd pull up my tube socks and sprint around the block. The lap closed as I landed in the kitchen for water and to check my time. The running route isn't dissimilar from my thirty-something efforts. The pace is slower but the route is relatively the same.

Naomi hit the ground running with the 2008 Olympic Games. Last night she wanted to know what fencing was. She was also curious why sand-volleyball players sport bikinis as their team uniform? The former question was pretty straight forward I have to confess the bikini-thing doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me either.

The Olympics, for me, conjure a sense of awe. I don't mean to over dramatize the situation and idolize athletes: nor do I mean to trivialize their accomplishments. I file Olympic athletes among any group of the accomplished and uber-dedicated. The Games showcase not just their talents but years of acute focus and excellence. Its a type of focus I admire and have never fostered in myself.

Anyway, for the next 14 days, don't be alarmed by an uncharacteristic obsession I have with the sports page. Every four-years I prove to be an Olympic glutton.

Unlisted Number

N: Does it hurt when a baby comes out?

Me: Yes.

N: Did you get hurt?

Me: A little. You and I worked hard when you were coming out. But everything healed up.

N: How come we had to stay at the hospital?

Me: We were both pretty tired. We stayed in the hospital two days so we could rest. During that time the nurses helped me learn a little about being a mom.

N: So kind of like mom lessons?

Me: Yeh, kind of. I learned how to feed you, how to give you a bath...

N: Is that where you got the Tooth Fairy's phone number? From your mom lessons at the hospital?

Me: Mmm-hmmm.

N: I thought so.

Runners Take Your Mark

To provide context for the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing, Naomi's summer camp through Family Services held a Summer Olympics field-day. The event was complete with a mock-torch run and competitive events such as the egg toss, water-balloon shot-put, and a nail-biting photo finish for the three-legged-race.

Not to say she's a competitor, but Naomi slept in her gym shorts the night before. She wanted to wake up ready for the race.

Piracy

Somebody broke into my Prius the other night. They rummaged through the contents of my glove-box and console. My wallet and personal information inside the house, my car was slim pick-ins. The thief walked off with our digital camera and a Lincoln Safari bag. The losses weren't all that high in dollar value though it was sad to see the photos stored in our camera go. The Safari guidebook and map were left among the rubble.

On the one hand I am mad at myself for not locking the door. Carting grocery bags inside the night before I didn't have a free hand to lock the car door behind me. I should be more diligent about locking my car doors. I shouldn't take for granted the constant traffic and the high-profile nature of our street as countermeasures which might deter theft.

But if we're casting blame around I think its only fair to say other people shouldn't break into my vehicle and steal my stuff.

My Climate Change Kvetch

…that global warming is unequivocal, that there is "compelling and robust" evidence that the emissions endanger public welfare and that the EPA administrator is "required by law" to act to protect Americans from future harm.
— Environmental Protection Agency
Advance Notice of Proposed Rulemaking
December 5^th, 2007

For both personal and professional motives I have read my fair share of Environmental regulations, proposed rules, legislation and court findings. Let's just say that while sitting down to read the latest update on the road to carbon dioxide regulation, this wasn't my first time at the rodeo. Until today, however, I have never used the word unconscionable in reference to a regulator. Today was also the first time I have been brought to tears by the implications of a single action, or in this instance, an in-action.

The Environmental Protection Agency announced today that it will not regulate carbon dioxide emissions. Its a complete reversal of the finding the same Agency made in December. By EPA declining to regulate CO2 the EPA turns a deaf ear to several states and the Supreme Court. As an industry hack I will say many of the CO2 reduction measures brainstormed in the public arena are not at all in-step with technologies available. Many carbon control technologies, while promising, are not ready nor even available for prime time.

However there is no shortage of perfectly appropriate measures the EPA could implement which would reduce CO2 emissions:
**Revisiting Building and Electrical Codes which were established to avoid fires but could be modified to maximize energy efficiency.
**Requiring industries to incrementally up renewable energy resources.
**Increasing fuel efficiency standards.
**Modifying agricultural practices.
**Reducing the speed limit.
**Proliferate the use of algae to consume CO2 emissions.
**Carbon trading systems with a "safety cap" or maximum cost to preserve the economy.

Instead the Agency throws up its hands, decides to do nothing, and walks away. And not for a lack of scientific data, judicial pressure, nor the moral imperative to act. EPA's inaction on the issue of carbon dioxide occurs here because the political will doesn't make an appearance within the agency. Excuse me as I devlove with an adolescent insult, but, that I find that un-f-ing-believable.

Rub It In, Why Don't Ya?

Naomi: What is that? What are you chewing?

Me: Gum.

Naomi: Bubble-gum?

Me: Yep.

Naomi: How come?

Me: I like it.

Naomi: No fair! I like gum. How come you get gum and I don’t?

Me: Because *sigh* you're a kid, Naomi. And my life, as a grown-up, is better than you can possibly imagine.

Not-An-Astronaut

I dwell in possibility
-- Emily Dickenson

Ask me to log the hours I spent in my twenties smoking cigarettes and engaging in philosophical conversation. Ask away. I wouldn’t know where to begin. What's more many of the thoughts, the revelations about myself, literature, nature, politics are lost in murky waters of my brain. I can sometimes remember small moments, bits of a conversation, with blurry edges.

One such clear moment came to me recently. It was with my friend, Hubbard. Subtract at least ten years from my life, plop me somewhere in Colorado, insert a coffee mug (Hubbard was a non-smoker and I didn't want to be rude) in my hand and that's as near as I can approximate the edges of the scene. Here's the part my memory doesn't blur: Hubbard talked about his late-night revelation that he wouldn’t be an astronaut.

Space exploration was one of those romantic dreams lots of kids hatched in the seventies. It’s a simple equation: take the age cohort that was 5-11 years old in the late seventies, have them watch Star Wars, introduce Tang the powdered orange drink to the pallet, and (presto) you have a lot of kids who dreamed of being astronauts.

This coffee scene between twenty-somethings wasn’t Hubbard’s announcement that he planned to drop out of the Kennedy Space Center program. He just marked a moment where he recognized that his life, his studies, his choices lead down a divergent path.

The conversation named similar feelings of my own. Every now and then I look at my life and realize what it isn’t. The Not-An-Astronaut-episodes aren’t generally marked sadness or melancholy. Its more like time spent watching the door. Like I'm waiting for another rendition of myself to walk in and take over.

I spent this weekend watching the door. I can't even name what version of myself I waited for, what possibilities she might have seized. I looked past my familiars and never managed to name what wasn't there. The Not-An-Astronaut episode fades, generally without note, like some strange case of the brain-flu. Sometimes, however, I recognize what I want(ed). The clarity can give rise to small habits that fold along the edges of this life. I find myself dropping a card with my name into the travel sweepstakes bin, sign up for a landscaping class, check out foreign language tapes from the library, buy a Powerball ticket, plant atypical bulbs in the flower bed for next Spring...

In large part the new habit is fueled by nostalgia. But a small piece of me keeps my toes wet in other lives I might lead. I like to think just because those visions don't define me right now is no reason to fully believe they won't ever.

___________________________
Currently Reading: The Other by David Guterson.

The Other occupies the unenviable position of following the dizzy, sad, carried away feeling that consumed me as I read Snow Falling on Cedars by the same author. While The Other has Guterson's steady tone, his measured introspection it hasn't struck the same deep chord with me Snow Falling on Cedars did. I'm not at all unhappy to be reading the Other but uncertain whether I would recommend it. Pardon the pun, but, I'll keep ya posted.

Consent Of The Governed

...to secure these rights governments are instituted among men
deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed...
-- Thomas Jefferson

Each year, on July 4th, National Public Radio's Morning Edition reads the Declaration of Independence aloud. The moment makes the morning stand out from every other. I'm struck by the tall order placed by the Declaration of Independence as it conjures a vision of a nation and its people.

I'm a sucker for lofty ambitions however the particular aspirations expressed by the Declaration strike a deep chord with me. I don't consider the country to have lived up to its creed but I admire and adopt its goals. I consider myself a patriot essentially. I always have.

Putting my sense of patriotism into words runs the risk of sounding anemic and offensive in certain circles, and like soft-minded sappiness in others. But here goes... I do not withhold my love for something, in this case a country, just because its renderings are or have been imperfect. At the same time loving a thing does not preclude me from speaking of its failed policies or practices.

I like the trimmings of the holiday well enough. I like parades, cookouts, and three-day weekends. I'm even a good enough sport on game days to attempt that part in the national-anthem where we all squeak about the red glare of rockets. But its the Declaration itself, the moment I hear it read aloud on the radio, serves as the point my day plumbs from.

Whatever the holiday brings you, and wherever you are this Friday: Happy Fourth!

Standing By The Punch-Bowl

I met a woman at a party the other night. I'm terribly insecure about meeting new people. Usually I clam up in any group larger than six. But over the past couple of years I've made the concerted effort to actually build social skills. There was nowhere to go but up from ground zero which, truly, was my starting-point.

Anyway, I'm at this party the other night and making polite small talk with a woman in the corner. Turns out our kids went to the same child-care center, she's originally from Minnesota, and she's trained as an anthropologist. The conversation lulled and we moved on to poke at the ice in our glasses.

I thought the conversation had gone quite well so I fought the urge to excuse myself before I said something silly. Instead I put a wide smile on my face and offered up the "Oh, you must know..." game. Oh, I said, you must know my dear friend Ms. Bizzlehopper (not her real name) to which the stranger responded with a ten minute diatribe about how Bizzlehopper had bees in her bonnet, was a complete nincompoop and an interpersonal ogre.

On the one hand, the stranger's comments left me feeling defensive on behalf of my friend, Bizzlehopper, and on the other hand I thought isn't that interesting. Here's a person trained to study human behavior yet when offered an opening like you must know my dear friend... she berates our mutual acquaintance rather than saying yes and moving on to another topic.

I felt a strong kinship to the moment itself. By no means am I throwing stones on the foot-in-mouth score. My house is made entirely of glass on that one.

But I have spent most of my adult life feeling inept at the art of small talk. Assuming everyone else was the equivalent of a Super-Hostess or Social-Olympian with easy conversation and funny stories while I'm tongue-tied and standing by the punch-bowl. This moment made me think maybe the group of mere mortals is more crowded than I thought.

I waited for the Bizzlehopper comments to arrive at their natural close, responded with a nod and mmm-hmmm, allowed the conversation lull and noticed out-loud Oh, look my glass is empty. If you'll excuse me...
____________________________________
Currently Reading Reason: Why Liberals Will Win the Battle for America by Robert Reich
Currently Watching Slings and Arrows: The Complete Collection

My Daughter: The Closer

I shot this photo of Naomi when we were in the Denver Airport. I was reassembling our carry-ons and tying my shoe laces after the TSA checkpoint so Naomi took a moment to phone my mom.

Naomi hatched a plan to spend the night with her grandparents and phoned just to shore up the logistics. Oftentimes I think of Naomi as always giggling or goofing around by contrast this photo is all business. The kicker is that Naomi isn't even speaking to a live person in this photo she's just leaving a declarative voice-mail message.

Given her level of determination it came as no surprise to find my mom (aka Grandma Mel) at the arrival gate in Lincoln. We piled into mom's car. No explanation was required as they kicked me to the curb at our house. The day closed with Naomi tucked under the covers at her grandparents' for a good night's sleep. Done deal.

Children's Mouths Shouldn't Say

Me: How was your day at summer camp?

Naomi: Not so good.

Me: Really? How come?

Naomi: Alex said a bad word today.

Me: I'm sorry that happened.

Naomi: Yep, he said that bad word children’s mouths shouldn’t say. (She leans in to me here, looks around, and lowers her voice) You know, the s-h- word

Me: Oh, that’s too bad.

Naomi: Yeah, *sigh* he said shut-up. It was too bad.

Me: Yeah, *sigh* too bad.

You May Find Yourself

And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?
--Talking Heads

I popped open my car trunk the other day to grab my gym bag and noticed a dangling plastic yellow tag. Turns out it’s a trunk release. You yank on it in the event you’re trapped in the trunk of the car and need to get out.

Obviously this trunk release was installed at the factory. Otherwise someone thinks I lead a much more colorful or criminal life than I do. How flattering.

More appropriate, given my age and circumstance, than the trunk release itself was the reminder to run once I’m out of the trunk. Aaaaah, I feel so much safer.

So, how was your weekend?

It's the first question anyone asks you at the watercooler on Monday: So, how was your weekend? Today I can't respond without giggling. My Aunt Carol threw her annual Splash Party on Saturday. Water-guns, a two-lane Slip-n-Slide, beach balls, wading pools and sprinklers made for a super fun time. Naomi and I were completely jazzed to hang out with the gaggle of kids, and near-kids (aka grown ups) in attendance.

I snapped this photo after I dared the kids to strike their silliest pose. Let's just say I didn't have to ask twice because they busted out the silly poses very, very readily.

Having been a parent for six years now, I can say with some distinction that this was a group of the sweetest, most fun-loving, well behaved children quite possibly ever congregated in one place. Nothing stood in the way of this good time. No squabbling, no fighting, no crying nothing but an afternoon fully-loaded with sun screen and splashin' around. Afterwards Naomi and I climbed into the car just dawg-tired. We were running on fumes by that point but still giggled with glee the whole way home.

Thanks, Aunt Carol, for such a fun afternoon! And don't worry, that patch of grass under the Slip-n-Slide will grow back eventually.

The Presidential Race

Circa 1980 the job title I coveted wasn’t astronaut it was President. Put in its proper context my aspiration makes sense. My dad was running his first campaign. My first grade classroom staged a mock-election with the Carter-Regan ballot.

I was selected as one of two class speakers that Tuesday afternoon. We were to speak to the merits of the a candidate. I backed Regan. No lie. I had read the weekly reader, agreed with my grandparents (Republicans on both sides), and advocated my fellow seven-year-olds vote for him. I backed the guy whose first Presidential decision was to remove the solar panels from the roof of the White House. Huh. Go figure.

My dad, and Ronald Regan, both won their elections and, obviously, I decided I wanted to be President.

Best Friends

Naomi: Nobody wants to be my friend.

Me: Naomi, that's not true.

Naomi: Nobody wants to be my best friend. Everybody has a best friend at school and nobody wants to be with me.

Me: You know, there weren't a lot of kids in my neighborhood so when I went to school I felt like nobody wanted to be my best friend either.

Naomi: What did you do?

Me: I learned to read because a book can always be your best friend.

Naomi: Mom, a book can't go on the Monkey Bars!

Morning Stretch

"Naomi, would you please get out of bed?"

"I'm stretching."

"Yes, but you've been stretching for 15 minutes. You don't have that much surface area, darling, and I need to get to work."

"But I'm doing something healthy."

The thought not uttered: "True enough."

Cans for Books Drive

The Cans for Book Drive was a big success. With the help of neighborhood businesses, friends, and family Naomi collected thirty-nine pounds of aluminum which garnered $23.⁵³ for the Prescott School media center. Naomi was pretty thrilled by the impressive load of cans she and her dad drove to the recycling center.

I speak from both the parent and former student perspective to say the support of this community gives rise to strong schools. Thank you to everyone who donated your recycling stash, or in some fashion allowed us to haul off your aluminum to benefit the Cans for Books program.

Istanbul Was Constantinople

Full disclosure: McKibbin and I have been watching Northern Exposure re-runs. This blog post is heavily influenced by my love of Chris In The Morning.

This morning I was making coffee in the break room and I switched on the television as the Today Show cameras found Matt Lauer in Istanbul, Turkey. Immediately I started to humm a song by They Might Be Giants (…if you’ve a date in Constantinople she’ll be waiting in Istanbul…) .

Lauer offered some sound-bite history of Turkey. He mentioned the Ottoman Empire, the culture of Turkish coffee. He rendered a 1630s report of some guy climbing to the top of the Galata Tower, wearing a pair of artificial wings, and leaping from the tower to fly about 3000 meters.

All the while I hummed (…Istanbul was Constantinople, now its Istanbul not Constantinople…) and made coffee at the power plant. My inner narrator thought, obviously this winged-guy from Turkey wasn’t afraid of heights or flying.

It was the sight of the Blue Mosque that stopped me in my tracks. I was bedazzled. Its not often that one of my senses overloads the others. I’m such an auditory person its even less usual for my eyes to lead the charge, but, the mosque was that lovely. I had to come back to my computer and search for something to write... "Named for the blue tiles that decorate the interior, the Blue Mosque is a working religious facility. Completed in 1617, it has 16 balconies, six minarets, and an underground pool that regulates the inside temperature."

Only I would find the underground pool HVAC system interesting. The mosque, however, was a work of sheer inspiration and artistry.
__________________________________________

Speaking of art, remember my ROAR post about my brother’s art show in February? One of his photos won an award from the Nebraska Arts Council. How genius is that?

I might be the first to say so in cyberspacethe award is well deserved. Give it up for my brother who stepped out on a limb, showed what he’s got, and won an award for it. Congratulations, Matt!

_________________________________________

The Blue Mosque also raises the topic of an international experience. With that mention I have to, have to, have to hoot-and-holler with admiration for my friend Becki. She's is off to Tanzania for a two year stint in the Peace Corps.

Becki has a compassionate nature and a rousing sense of purpose. She offers the Peace Corps skills, an open mind, and the enviable ability to pick up foreign languages. The Peace Corps, and the rest of us, are lucky to have such a compassionate person volunteer for the Corps. Straight-up: Becki is my Peace Corps hero.

___________________________________________

I am surrounded on all sides by greatness. And, sigh, I have to say it feels terrific!

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As a parting thought, Happy May Day!

If you have the chance, I suggest hugging your local union rep. For most of human history the weekend was nothing but a pipe dream. It took the labor movement make it a reality. Enough said.

Such Small Hands

If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies.
-Anonymous

Last Tuesday I got out of work early and walked (rather than drove) to pick up N from school. Making our way down the front steps of Prescott there was a hot wind blowing. The sunlight caught the side of her cheek as she smiled at me. We grabbed hands and crossed the street together.

From that first step onto the cross-walk to the last step on the front porch I listened to the melodious sound of a six year old babble about school. She rendered the latest and greatest song from music class, listed what different kids ate for lunch (“oh, by the way, mom, couldn’t you throw a dessert into my lunch-box just a little more often?”), and she mentioned liking the smell of her teacher’s perfume when she gets a hug.

Subtract the sunlight, the hot wind and I’m left with a moment that isn’t uncommon.

In the daily grind of dinner, dishes, bedtime, laundry…rinse, lather, repeat… I often forget to relish in what an affectionate creature N is. It goes without notice, sometimes, how she'll instinctively hold my hand, or even delight in our being together.

It won't always be like this. She'll bound across streets with or without me. Grow into an adult who never gives a second thought as to how hard it was to tie her own shoes.

Everything changes eventually. Even the smallness of her hands. Our relationship will change accordingly. Being a parent often conjures a lesson I keep learning, forgetting, and learning again that you have to love what you have while you have it.

Everyday Things for a Healthier Planet

Happy Earth Day! Without a lot of time to write a long diatribe about the environment I fall back on the premise of a book by John C. Ryan called Seven Wonders. Each chapter focuses on an item from his list of choices we can make for a healthier planet. Its a good book and one I recommend. Ryan uses his research to paint a picture of things I can do rather than leaving me with a hopeless or deeply depressed feeling which pervades the eco-lit genre.

In a nutshell Ryan recommends we opt for the following Seven Wonders to benefit the planet:

1. The Bicycle
   
2. The Ceiling Fan
3. The Library
4. Pad Thai Tofu
5. The Condom
6. The Clothesline
7. The Ladybug

My favorite among the list is the bicycle. We went on a family bike ride just last Saturday. You remember that feeling you had on your dirt bike when you were a kid? The rush you got from tick-tick-ti-ti-ti-ti-ticking of your bike chain? The way your cheeks got a little flushed from the thrill of mobility? Call me a big kid but its a feeling I've never outgrown.

Obviously I'm a huge fan of Thai food and my vegetarian husband proliferates the veggie servings present at our table. So, my taste-buds must give a nod to the Pad Thai though I know the tofu mention rules that out for several of you.

In celebration of Earth Day I hope you'll head to your local library and check out Seven Wonders by John C. Ryan. Its a quick read and offers some good granola brain-food to munch on.

Cilantro Plants for the Taking

Our sun-lamp downstairs works better than I dreamed it would. The McKibbin basement is a cilantro forest. Fresh herbs are expensive from the grocer but these bedding plants are free to a good home. If you're interested just call or email me.

Spring

I like the way the soil kind of stings against my fingers as I work in the garden. The cold, wet earth reminds me we how close this moment rises from winter. I wonder if the winter hibernation isn't some basic instinct of mine during bouts of cold weather? I curl up on the couch more often. Read more. Talk Less. My sleep is somehow deeper under the insulation of snow.

As the daylight lengthens so does my to-do list. Some special breath about springtime awakens my ambition. These mornings, before the alarm, I stay still just a minute to hear the birds outside. I push back the covers with a rush of energy.

Insult to Injury

With moaning and complaining on the brain I slunk into the gym at 5 pm today. I growled out a mouthful of self-pity to the YMCA check-in clerk about my long, frustrating day with little sleep. I was just dog tired. With that bad attitude I laced up my shoes, and walked upstairs from the locker room. The half-marathon training guide said I still had to run six miles.

I fired up my treadmill, plugged in my headphones and surrendered to notion that, bad attitude or not, the next sixty minutes of my life would be occupied by running. Adding insult to injury the news report told me that my favorite, favorite junk food of all time (cheese fries with ranch dressing) topped a list from Men's Health Magazine of unhealthy foods.

Talk about kicking a girl while she's down!

My Inner Sci-Fi Geek

Say the word sci-fi to a woman and she’ll respond by
shrieking as she runs into the other room to go read
The Kiterunner.

-- That Guy Who Hosts The Daily Dish
on E! Entertainment Channel

Looking in the mirror this morning, I had a moment of clarity. All junkies start their sobriety stories that sort of revelation, don’t they? I’ve been reduced to a puddle of my former self by the marathon Battlestar Galactica episodes this week leading up to the season premier tonight. My brother and I watched Battlestar Galactica’s original rendering in the ‘70s. Yep, my Battlestar addiction dates back to the days when Starbuck was a guy, and the Commander was better known for his role in Alpo dog-food commercials.

Here’s the scoop: the old show was campy and fun but this new show is genius. I’m not the type of sci-fi fan who’s hooked whenever a show throws down a couple of good special effects or a techno-gadget to inexplicably save-the-day. It’s the plotline of the new Battlestar Galactica that grabs me. The story is both exciting and relevant. It manages to capture the essence of a very human story. Uh, its just … its just …genius.

I know there is a lot of Battlestar hype out there. You’ve seen the Bringing the 'Battlestar' fleet home: 5 questions article in the Journal Star or the 'Battlestar Galactica': Why It Might Save Your Marriage article on MSN. Seriously if you are at all on the fence I recommend checking out the final season.

Latecomers can catch up on the last four seasons by watching an 8 minute clever synopsis posted by the SciFi Channel called What The Frak is Going On?

What I Watch at 5 A.M.

Don't you sometimes wish your car were
headed to the Waffle House instead?
--Downtown YMCA desk clerk who checks me in each morning

So the call of the gym at 5 a.m. just isn't that strong but it is enough to beacon me to the YMCA and go running on a treadmill. The downtown Y has a plug-in option on each treadmill so a bum like me can watch television while I run. Occasionally I'll plug into a discussion on BookTV .

To discuss my BookTV habit, even in cyberspace, leaves me conflicted. Here I am, committed to run x number of miles, and I have this opportunity to listen to smart people talk about books. What could be wrong with that? What's wrong with that is I haven't read the book itself and I feel somewhat like an interloper for listening in. Ultimately I've resolved that listening to an intelligent conversation can only leave me better off. Its not like I plagiarize the book, pose as an expert, or even pretend I've read the text. I like smart people. I've been lucky enough to befriend lots of smart people. Why not listen to smart people who happen to have written books?

This blog is a strange, rambling way for me to recommend the following BookTV discussions. In an era of iphones I don't generally make digital recommendations. I have, however, come back to the thoughts expressed in each of the following shows:

Starbucked: A Double Tall Tale of Caffeine, Commerce, and Culture
Plug-in Hybrids: The Cars that Will Recharge America
The Next American Century
In Defense of Food

Days, sometimes weeks, later I find myself glad for my 5 a.m. treadmill date. What kind of sick talk is that, you ask? Occasionally the treadmill brings me smart discussions that challenge me to think new thoughts and that's good stuff. Its not good stuff like hot maple syrup or a side of bacon from the Waffle House would be good stuff -- but its good stuff nonetheless.

Thrown To The Dogs

It's okay to love your pets, just don't looooove your pets.
--Janeane Garofalo, The Truth About Cats And Dogs

Brent's latest Mother Jones magazine arrived in our mailbox last week. From it he quoted a somewhat disturbing statistic. Evidently women were posed the scenario of their dog suddenly becoming human. The question asked for a true/false response to the statement "If my dog were to suddenly become human he would be my boyfriend".

Well over a third of the women answered in the affirmative.

Nearly Thirty-Five

I thought of a friend of mine from college named MacGreggor who was in a lot of my classes at CSU. The fact that I passed Dendrology is entirely attributable to MacGreggor (Mac)'s willingness to be my study partner. I lost touch with him years ago. A casualty of graduating college and both of us scattering from Fort Collins for entry level jobs. In the daily crush of “to-do” items in my planner and the ten years of time between my feet and the CSU campus I don’t think of MacGreggor often but I did think of him this morning.

Actually I thought of one moment with MacGreggor when I was twenty-two-ish and I bumped into him at the (no lie) Déjà vu coffee shop. His textbooks laid open, he invited me to join him. We talked about classes or roommates or some such and Mac mentioned a woman he was dating.

The female inquisitor in me fired off a bunch of questions to learn more about this new girlfriend. He answered my questions but all the while fidgeted with his coffee cup, re-arranged his highlighter pens on the table. I must have asked something along the lines of whether he really liked her when (and this is the moment that came to me) he stopped fidgeting, squared his shoulders and looked at me to say “Melissa, she makes me shiver.” MacGreggor didn’t throw around words or make romantic gestures for sport. Using a word like shiver could never have been inspired by its poetic value or because he'd rehearsed it for affect. He said it because it was true.

My thirty-fifth birthday is this week. Any birthday where my age ends in a 5 or a 0 inspires the pensive mood thinking about old friends, wondering what the future holds. The pensive moment overtook me this morning, I suppose. The smell of fresh coffee rising from downstairs, Naomi bemoaning how early it was, how sleepy she felt. I caught a glimpse of my wrinkled face in the mirror as I brushed my teeth and MacGreggor came to mind. I suddenly wished we had a coffee date at the Déjà vu so I could tell him that at nearly thirty-five life is good. He could buy me a cup of coffee and I could fail to elaborate about myself but brag about my kid. I have stumbled around to find or fix up a pretty good life. The sweetness of that realization made me shiver.

Ouch

We were made to bleed
and scab
and heal
and bleed again
-- Ani Difranco

I hate that feeling that accompanies someone’s failure to recognize the goodness and value of my friends and family. The teacher who feels compelled to clip my kid’s imagination, the boyfriend who could never never deserve my roommate, the employer that devalues the towering level of competence my friend brings to the task.

Who hasn’t had one of these phone call or couch conversations with someone you love? One where you looked at their slouched shoulders, listened to that sad mumble from their mouth.

The clarity you have from the outside of this sadness can’t penetrate it. Sure, you can state the obvious: the bootcamp ethos of the teacher, the algae goo dwelling in that boyfriend's heart, the mediocre ass-backwards of the workplace...but the timing is all wrong. Sitting on my couch, or cradling the telephone I am befuddled by how seldom the daily work we take on is appreciated. More than our deeds we have this enormous capacity to love, to inspire, to create. What is more amazing than that? What could be more admirable? What are we to make of the often occurence of being scrutinized, blamed, or battered by the critic du jour? Who hasn't sat on both sides of this sad scene?

And the worst part is that, love you as I do, I can't fix it. I’ve got Kleenex, and a couple of zings for the offender but I can’t fix it. The pain has to run its course. Eventually the person dries their eyes, and emerges on the other side of this - they graduate the grade, ditch the boyfriend, locate the office supply stash at some new job.

But in that moment, when everything hurts, its hard to believe that the essence of a person, for lack of a more exact term, the spirit is a vast and renewable resource. It gets all of us through. Sad or lost as you might feel, sweetheart, you just have to wait for it.

Slow Feet Sleepy Brain

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake. – Narrator from the movie Fight Club

After a fitful night of something I can’t really call sleep it was early this morning when I gave up the fight. The pillow wasn't any more comfortable, my eyelids weren't any heavier than they were an hour ago so I untangled myself from the covers and slipped downstairs.

There is some trick to navigating my house in the dark. Old houses are an auditory mine field with stairs that moan, doors that squeak, and hot water pipes that clank.

I’m not so well organized that my running shoes are waiting for me by the door. I found them eventually and silently bundled up in layers to run a lap around my neighborhood. I like winter mornings when the streets are quiet, the sun is slow to rise.

I’ve never been a fast runner; the slow steady method works so long as I don’t expect to win any races. I started training last week for a half-marathon in May. My run this morning was part of an eleven-week conversation where my brain tries to make the case to my body that running 13.1 miles is an acceptable proposition. The half-marathon was a goal I toyed with for about ten years before actually completing it for the first time last Spring. Sometimes my body yelps or moans to remind my brain that this effort would have been a lot easier ten years ago. My twenty-something body didn't have so many creaks or complaints. The recuperation time was substantially quicker. Ah, well, youthful bodies are wasted on the young.

Running in the winter is this strange blend of extremes. The cold red cheeks and white fingers occupying the same body as the rapid-fire of one's heartbeat and sweat glands. The intersection of extremes occurs somewhere in my chest cavity. Its affected both by the cold, dry air and the steady, deep breaths running requires.

My quiet morning ended with the clank of the hot water pipes in the shower, the hiss of the coffeepot. The sun eventually made its appearance; the rest of my family emerged from their bedsheets. Stairs moaned. Doors squeaked.

Spreadin Some Lovins

I have tickets to hear Amory Lovins speak at the Lied Center tonight. Lovins is one of those wonky, engineering types who graduated from Harvard. He is revered in certain circles but largely obscure to most of us. It’s a real shame because this is a guy who has advocated energy conservation since the Opec Oil Crisis of the mid-seventies. He called for a Soft Path approach to energy policy (insulation, green construction for buildings, higher gas mileage, energy efficiency…the most inexpensive megawatt of electricity or barrel of oil is the one you don’t consume… etc.)

In a world that is increasingly cynical its hard to throw around words like visionary or hero without feeling geeky. But this guy has the goods. Take any moment in history, any group of people I could spend ten minutes with, and Amory Lovins shows up in the top five of my list every single time.

Because I’m pumped up to attend this lecture tonight, I felt compelled to put his name out there. Ask somebody who Paris Hilton is, or Tito Jackson and most people could offer a passing reference as to why they’re noteworthy. Ask us to conjure a visionary who has dedicated his life to advocating energy conservation and the collective mind draws a blank. I thought I’d offer Amory Lovins as a person to fill in that blank.

To learn his particulars, search on youtube, or check him out here:

http://www.sqwalk.com/blog2006/000764.html
http://sic.conversationsnetwork.org/shows/detail3265.html
http://rmi.org/sitepages/pid41.php
https://secure.bioneers.org/node/518

Clearing the Air

It isn’t pollution that’s harming the environment. It’s the impurities in our air and water that are doing it. – Dan Quayle

Naomi and I were up early this Monday morning to pack her lunchbox and prattle a little bit about our day. She had a book to read me for extra credit. Music class, always a favorite in her heart and mind, was a mentionable item on the agenda today as well. I made a brief comment that most of my day would be consumed by air quality issues. Naomi has a visual reference for the emission stacks at my workplace. She knows we have to be careful what, and how much goes up those stacks. It’s a basic understanding of what goes up comes down eventually.

I'll digress here, though I didn't this morning, to be a complete bore amongst adults and provide a level of detail unfit for my kid. My Monday was consumed by a decision handed down by the Federal court last Friday. The court essentially scrapped the EPA Mercury rules, affectionately know as CAMR which I would decode as an acronym but life too short to spend bogged down in obscure references, which puts the EPA and regulated community back to the drawing board on mercury.

Anyway, back to the breakfast table. Naomi and I spoke of her music class, packed her lunchbox. We slapped some Spanish rice in a warm thermos, string cheese, juice box... I staged some reluctance on the fresh strawberry score just to make her feel she pulled a fast one. She nodded through my brief reference to air quality being the focus of my day. I listened to a book about a girl named Kit. We polished off the morning with coats, backpacks, boots and we were out the door. As I drove her to school, I silently congratulated us both on a morning sans screaming or crying. Yay, me! I thought, I might get the hang of this parenting gig yet.

We pulled up to the school building, I opened her door, and Naomi burst out of the car like she had just been uncaged. She was running, full clip, toward the building screaming, “Run, Mommy, its raining poison lava from the sky!” This wasn’t one of those sing-songy screams kids will sometimes do in a misguided attempt to be cute; this was a slasher-movie-don’t-take-a-shower-at-the-Bates-Hotel scream.

I stood there, stunned, both by what a fast runner she is and how utterly consumed she was in this vivid scene in her imagination. Poison lava? If the poison doesn’t get you the scalding temperature of the molten lava will? What’s a mom to do but join her kid’s slasher movie and scream her way into the school building?

Note to self: hold off on further elaborating the acid rain rules to Naomi.

_____________

I filed this Op-Ed piece on the Democratic Presidential race under the category of thoughts I've had that are better articulated by someone a lot smarter, with lots more political sway. Yep, she copied my idea. Copy cat.

Balancing the Scales

The first Democratic Caucus in Nebraska this Saturday.

It will sound blasphemous to say, but generally when election time rolls around I get out of bed with a groan. Its not like my sense of civic responsibility propels me to skip and bound out into the street anxious to vote. I generally have to wake up early, leave work before five, bribe my daughter to accompany me or otherwise negotiate some way to duck into the voting booth.

The caucus sounded like a more involved process which was to hard sell me on. Part of me rallied with a brief reminder that generations of women fought for the right to participate directly in the political process. Part of me rallied when I reminded myself I am a role model for my kid.

Then I thought of a speech I heard my father give several years ago at a "Get Out the Vote" rally. He asked the group to envision the most politically illiterate person you know. The one who drives you crazy. The one who gets your blood pressure up, or makes your eyes roll. That political discussion you resent for having occupied both your time and brain space.

Its not tough to conjure the image of that guy in the cubicle, the distant relative who shows up for family occasions, the woman at the check out stand you can't help but over hear, the television or radio pundit, etc. Now envision all of those people lined up at the polling booth. Scary, hunh? There's the motivator! Without you at the polling booth, the whole system crumbles as those people shape the future of this country. Balance out the scales a little. Cough up a little bit of time this Saturday and offer a thoughtful vision for the future.

Click here to enter your address and find your caucus location in Lancaster county.

Roar

My brother, Matt, put up his first art show tonight. He gathered a series of breathtaking photographs from his African honeymoon and put them up at his wife's art studio. I was among the first of a crowd of people who came to admire his work.

First off, I must compliment the photographs. They were delightful. Most of them were extremely close up (the back of an elephant's ear, the weathering skull of a water buffalo, the direct gaze of a lion) so the textures, shadows, and gradations in color of each image spilled out from the frame. His work transported me to faraway places my skin has never touched.Secondly, I want to admire Matt's willingness to share his work. Even the seasoned photographers I know speak with a visible discomfort of having one's work displayed. I've heard the experience feels like nakedness.

There was something brave about all of us when we were younger; an adventurous spirit that embraced new things. We spoke openly about our latest learning curve. Many of us loose that bravery as we grow older. We make choices, we focus in certain areas. We become more of certain things, cast off other ideas. Outside of the natural focus of our lives everything becomes a little fuzzier. If we speak of our passions at all, we put a sideways slant to them. Polite qualifiers start any sentence that might hint we are more complicated than our resume. I'm a closet musician. I'm an armchair astronomer. I moonlight as a photographer. I putter around with entomology. We think we have to be perfect at something before we would consider putting it face forward to the world.

I admire the stunning work of photography Matt displayed tonight. I am honored he would share his work with, not just me but, anyone in the Burkholder Project. I applaud his willingness to step out of his own mold, to put up his latest great adventure without qualifying it. The center of him that conjures such strength leaves me inspired.

Winter Cold

I do so like green eggs and ham. Thank you, thank you, Sam I am.
-- Dr. Seuss

Winter came back while I was sleeping Monday night. The bitter wind picked me up and shooed me into the office. It was mid-morning before I realized my case of the chills was actually a fever. I thought I’d prop myself up with the stash of cold meds in my desk drawer but I was far enough gone to require more drastic measures. Its been a long time since I have been bedridden with a cold.

This is my second day with the grueling schedule of fluids and rest. Being sick has made me rather grateful for small things: two pillows instead of one, cherry flavored lozenges, warm blankets, epsom salts, and hot showers. Naomi took her shoes off before she peeked in to see me last night. She was curious if I was awake and, finding my eyes open, climbed into bed to read me a book.

With enough creature comforts, and pleasant company this cold doesn't stand a chance.

Creatively Cooking the Books

Let my words, like vegetables, be tender and sweet, for tomorrow I may have to eat them. (Anonymous)

Naomi has a passion for cooking. If not a practiced chef, she is an inspired one. So, Saturday night, as Brent and I were making soup for dinner I was not too surprised to glance over and find Naomi dicing the yellow pepper from the refrigerator.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked.

“Making a healthy salad,” she said with a dramatic fluffing of the back of her skirt as she enveloped the chair. Its a gesture only slightly less dramatic than that of a peacock. “I’ll eat it for dinner.” I knew this was one of those teachable moments I would later feel guilty about missing. We could use that idea of a healthy salad to talk about different types of vegetables, vitamins and nutrients. But I was busy making this soup and she was occupied pleasantly enough; so I shrugged and decided to let well enough alone.

About 15 minutes later, as Brent found the soup ladle, I looked over to assess the Naomi’s self proclaimed healthy salad. My mind had a thematic sense of what to expect based on some of her previous culinary efforts such as: Cheezit-apple salad, chocolate milk with applejacks, and peanutbutter-vegetable soup. So, like any good parent, I placed my hand over my face to mask any wincing the contents of this salad bowl might inspire. To my surprise Naomi had selected yellow pepper, carrots, raisins, and cheese for the salad. I stood in awe of whatever magic inspired my daughter to pull together a salad that was both healthy and delicious. As we sat down to dinner Brent and I were quick to echo with a “here, here” as Naomi offered up a toast to her own latest and greatest culinary creation.

Cheers.

I have this mind block when it comes to money. I don’t think of myself as a stupid person but financial matters hit some weird, dark place inside my brain. Tackling each financial decision (spending rates, mortgages, educational savings accounts, etc) on its own I can grasp the essentials. My problem arrives with the shell game bankers, investors or essentially anyone in a suit who sounds smart can convince me is a good financial idea. We’ve all heard variations on the same shell-game schpeel: borrow against your 401(k) to pay off credit cards, fund your kid’s college years with a signature loan, take the trip of a lifetime to someplace warm and tropical with your hard earned home equity, etc.

I’ve always treated my financial blind-spot as something a kin to toe-fungus. Something I would never speak of in polite company because all that embarrassment can be easily avoided by a good pair of socks.

So, why would I blog about finances or toe-fungus for that matter? My financial cluelessness has just become my claim to fame. I called Chris Farrell of National Public Radio (NPR) Marketplace Money , a weekend financial advice program, to give me the low-down on my latest money question. Chris is one of those super smart guys I listen to on a regular basis because: (a) he isn’t trying to sell me something; and (b) he can often help me navigate through financial landscapes. Marketplace Money airs each weekend and I’ll be the dippy Midwesterner with a call-in question for the Jan. 11-13 show depending on your local NPR listings. For those of us in Lincoln its on from 3-4 pm on Saturday.

Urban Rooster

Rooster today, feather-duster tomorrow
Russian Proverb

About a week ago I was sleeping in. As anyone with small children can attest sleeping in happens rarely so it's a rather memorable occasion. I rolled over and readjusted the blankets when, from a distant space, my sleepy mind thought it heard a rooster proclaim the dawn. We live in the heart of Lincoln so our house is not on the outskirts of town. My bedroom window doesn't jut up against a feed lot or anything so, at thought of a rooster caw waking me up I giggled, buried my head under the covers, and went back to sleep.

This morning I was not in such good humor as I heard the rooster caw (again) at 6:30 a.m. I laid there listening to another three or four caws, and finally nudged my husband...

"Babe, do we have a rooster living in our neighborhood?"

"Mmmmm-huh,"groaned Brent, who was still drooling into his pillow, "two doors down."

I didn't know whether to die of laughter or stew in indignation. I chose the latter and looked up the animal control regs. Whenever I'm on an angry tirade I love the internet because, somewhere there is a justification for my anger and its just a few clicks of a button away. After about twenty minutes of searching I found Chapter 6 Section 04.040 of the Lincoln Municipal Code Pigeons, Small Animal and Fowl Permit Requirements. I blinked at the screen in disbelief. Long story short: my neighbor can house as many as three roosters on his tiny square mid-town lot. I re-assessed the rage v. laughter responses to the situation. I live next to an urban rooster and I, when I'm not trying to sleep, think its pretty funny.

_____________________

Happy New Year! As Brent, Naomi and I rang in 2008 we made several new year's resolutions. Many of them are already broken but among the still feasible bunch I wanted to write more often and to keep in closer contact with my friends and family.