2008 Recap

Maximum Lincoln Safari Stops in a Single Day: 4

Number of Weddings Attended: 3 (an all-time annual record)

Phone Calls Logged From National Public Radio: 8

Holiday Occasions in a 24-Hr Period: 6

Total Holiday Occasions: 10 (another record)

Beverage Marking the Close of Christmas Occasion Marathon: Margarita.

Favorite Read (nonfiction): Oil on the Brain by Lisa Margonelli

Favorite Read (fiction): Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri

N’s Least Favorite New Concept: The Westermarck Effect. In a nutshell the theory states two people who grew up together from a young age (i.e. before the age of six) are unlikely to share an attraction toward or marry each other. The effect would significantly limit the marital prospects N has met thus far. She vigorously questioned the validity of Westermarck’s findings.

Favorite “Twilight Zone” Moment of the Year: Watching from the driver’s seat as my husband, a police officer, and a bar-room bouncer tried to eject a drunken stranger from my backseat. Lots of shouting, lots of confusion, but, thankfully, no vomiting. McK and I later concluded the drinker mistook my Prius for his cab ride home.

2008 Resolution Realized (for the most part): Bringing a lunch from home. Leftovers spoil in my fridge less often. The lunch from home habit saves time, saves money, saves gas and generally tastes better than various alternatives.

First 2008 Resolution to Get Kicked-to-the-Curb: Being more laid-back. McKibbin noted that if I’ve made this a goal, well, that kind of defeats its purpose.

2008 Award Winning Over-Reaction: We had mice in our house this winter. Any response you can imagine that skims the upper edge of reason should be improved by tears, high-decibel shrieks, visceral fear of rooms occupied by mice, and an obscene proliferation of armed forces against said rodent life forms.

Favorite New Recipe: Kohlrabi and Avocado Salad

Favorite Race of My 2008 Season: The Mud Run

Linguistic Crutch of the Year: The word effort.

Favorite “Green Energy” Proposal: Require all federal buildings in every state to meet Energy Star conservation standards.

Favorite “Green Energy” Active Program: Purchasing hybrid fleet vehicles.

Favorite Alternative Energy Source: Solar Coupled with Molten Salt Thermal Energy Storage

Wrapped-Up and Ready To Go

McKibbin and I watched movies and wrapped presents last night. These, obviously, are the gifts we're giving rather than receiving. Scotch tape worked its usual wonders to remedy my divided attention between the movie and the gift wrap. At the end of the evening there was the teapot, the chemistry set, the handwarmers, the box of chocolates all wrapped and trimmed with ribbon.

Each year I have one gift I'm particularly fond of. This year it is a jewel case and cd I'm giving my parents. What it boils down to is this: the likelihood I could purchase a fitting gift for my parents is remote at best; given the finite nature of my family finances it’s darned near impossible. Instead McKibbin helped me select a non-obtrusive MP3 recorder. I’ve used it to capture a series of twenty to thirty minute interviews I've collected over the past 4 weeks with my family.

At the onset of the process I intended to edit the interviews before I burned them onto a cd. Cut out the rough edges. All the oh-I-don’t-know-s. The pauses. The dog barking. The doorbell ring. But at the last minute I left each one intact. Maybe it's my sentimental nature or my unabashed love for these people…but I think each one is just right exactly as it is.

Peace Keeping Force

"Mommy, I promise to love you one-thousand years.
So long as I live that long. Now, you BETTER hug me!"
-Naomi

Emma our gerbil died.

Emma landed at the McKibbin house at the close of a difficult time in my marriage. Having lived separately for many months McKibbin and I finally, finally found some good footing. Naomi was reluctant, though, to part with a living arrangement which provided her with two rooms, two sets of toys, and the undivided attention of her accompanying parent everywhere she went. Smart kid.

Stumped by the reconciliation-reluctant 4 yr. old, McKibbin and I agreed to purchase a family pet. We built an affirmative case for moving-back-in-together based on the merits of McKibbin’s ample pet keeping skills. After a colorful negotiation around our dinner table weighing the the various pet options we agreed to purchase a gerbil.

McKibbin and Naomi trotted off to PETCO as I went to church one Sunday. We marched back through the front door with the newest member of our family in tow. Naomi was quick to name her Emma. We were never certain what inspired the name. Emma wasn’t the namesake of an acquaintance, favorite storybook character, or family member. It was like Naomi plucked it out of thin air, Emma, but the decree was absolute and no one dared to question it. She was a noisy little thing (Emma) who stayed up all night. She preferred sunflower seeds and her gerbil wheel to everything else on the planet. Anytime your finger was within reach Emma was quick to nibble on it.

The sudden occurrence of Emma’s death this weekend conjured a vivid memory of the morning she entered our lives. The giddy little dance Naomi did in the dining room. The way Emma scampered up to and around McKibbin’s collar. The awkward and excited giggle-fit we shared. All of us a little nervous and trying very hard not to be.

McKibbin’s cardboard boxes followed Emma through the door in short order. I wasn't sure Naomi had noticed the boxes. I remember staring at Naomi, wondering if this was one of those moments I needed to step up as a mother. Help her process what was happening. Naomi interrupted my inner discussion to suggest we shave off one of the cardboard flaps so Emma could chew on it. I said she should ask her dad that question. From there things got a little easier.

Seasonal Properties

Don't knock the weather. If it didn't change once in a while, nine
out of ten people couldn't start a conversation.
-- Kin Hubbard

Properties of Winter I like

1. Being miracled by a snow-day cancellation of school
2. The quieting properties of snow
3. Sledding-Snowshoeing- Ice Skating
4. A pink and orange sunrise against the cold sky
5. Arriving home to the surprise of a sidewalk already scooped
6. With enough layers, proper boots, and mittens Meadowlark Coffee is a five minute walk down the street for a shot of hot chocolate and board games.
7. Long, hot showers
8. The comfort of a warm blanket and a good book

Properties of Winter I Don't Like

1. Cold feet – the cold toes are particularly cruel
2. Gassing up my car in an arctic wind
3. Scraping my windshield
4. Snow-packed driving conditions
5. Winter accessories (scarf, hat, mittens) being so darned easy to lose
6. The way my eyes ice up with tears in the cold and again as I come inside
7. Cabin fever
8. Icy bed-sheets

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.

Ivy + Bean = Chemistry Set

-->N has recently enjoyed reading the Ivy + Bean books series about two unlikely friends. Bean is a talkative, emotive girl who likes to climb fences, and play tricks on her older sister, Nancy. She seldom wears dresses and avoids big books. Her new neighbor, Ivy, appears to be a quiet, orderly girl who sits on her front step day after day reading.

Shortly after devouring the Ivy + Bean books N started asking for a chemistry lab. As it turns out the bookworm, Ivy, makes a habit of mixing chemical potions. McK was game from the chemistry-set-get-go. I’ve been (by far) the more hesitant parent on this score. Having unabashedly plugged science into my kid’s brain my hesitance might sound strange.

I was not at all hesitant about buying a telescope to better illustrate the finer points of astronomy. We have hiking and camping gear coming out of our ears. My kitchen is open at all times to Science Experiments You Can Eat. Zoo camps, nature center excursions, fossil digs, Earth Day festivals…I am first in line with N in-tow.

The mention of a chemistry lab, however, opened my mental filing cabinet to an interview I heard (years ago) while living in Colorado. National Public Radio had invited two chemists to test and critique a number of chemistry sets for children. The chemist's review spoke to the gooey-mess-making focus of modern chemistry sets.

The allure of chemistry for these professionals as children, however, was an element of danger the kits possessed. To put it bluntly, it was the explosions (minor ones, hopefully) that were the most fascinating. That’s right: explosions. We’re not talking the vinegar and baking soda molten lava explosions; nor the loss of all self-control with the blue food coloring explosion that got all over the kitchen walls and linoleum (both of which are casualties we have already suffered at our house) we’re talking ka-BOOM explosions. And let’s just say I’ve asked enough questions of N to confirm we’re talking an old school chemistry lab my kiddo has envisioned.

I am not so hesitant on this score to squash the chemistry lab idea all together. Child-proof caps on the elements go a long, long way with me. Rest assured, I can say with relative certainty that N will find a chemistry set under the tree this year. I just need to update the emergency contact numbers programmed into my phone first. MMm-hmmm, and we'll put those phone contacts on speed dial.
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Currently Watching: Firefly
Currently Listening To: Earth's Major Ecosystems (lecture series)
Excited To See: Santaland Diaries

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.

Winter Mix

Whether I grant my consent or not, winter has a date with the hills of eastern Nebraska. And this tryst is fast approaching. This weekend McKibbin and I winterized the house. Not exactly a glamorous nor a romantic venture. It also requires no small amount of energy to get ready for winter in a house that is nearly one-hundred years old. But it was the week-end-long task we took up and accomplished the following:

*Flip the mattresses

*Plastic insulate the windows

*Clean out bathroom and kitchen drain traps
*Seal small cracks in the foundation

*Pack up summer clothes into attic boxes

*Change the filters in our dryer and furnace

*Set up ultrasonic repellers to dissuade mice from becoming tenants

*Turn the compost pile

*Plug in the space heater in Naomi’s room

*Set up the sunlamp fresh herb garden in the basement

*Stash two ice scrapers in the console of my car

*Mate mittens and warm socks

*Change the oil, check the battery and rotate my car tires

*Re-locate the shovel and ice-melt to the front porch box

It sounds like a lot, and it was. But with the proper amount of joking around, several trips to Home Depot, the gratuitous over-use of gadgets and power-tools (because, hey, if you've got a delux-ious tool box why not use it?), and a soundtrack of funk music blaring from every available stereo speaker...it actually wasn’t a bad time.

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Currently Watching: The Frontier House

Listening To: Nelly Furtado (Woah, Nelly!, Forca, and Folklore) and Angelique Kidjo (everything I own; thanks, M@!)

Currently Trying to Memorize: Winter Conversation by Joyce Wakefield (poem)

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.

Perks of the Job

Working for a public utility isn't the cubical station in life I had once aspired to. Its turned out to be a good gig for me, don't get me wrong, its just not glam. Job perks, other than stable employment and a dental plan, just aren't all that plentiful. No effusive job titles. No wild office parties. No liberties to take with a company car or credit card. As a public entity we have no stocks, so, no stock options. No year end bonus.

Through work I am part of a Community Services Committee though. We have organized a effort this year to gift children at the Cedars Home for Children over the holidays. Yesterday I was put up a tree in our lobby. Each ornament details one of the children's needs we are committed to fulfill. Its a cool program and one I'm proud to be part of. However inspiring the effort, though, I was tasked with that darned tree. It isn't the tree but the lights that, year after year, irk me. They're always tangled and I can never ever get each bulb to kick in.

I sat down on the lobby floor at 7 a.m. yesterday having already set tree in its stand and untangled the gangling wad of stringed lights. I had plugged in one end and was working my way down the string with the spare bulb, muttering expletives when one of the power plant operators walked by.

LES has four staffed facilities. We have 450 employees or so - most of whom are officed out of downtown. By contrast my power plant has a small workforce of maybe fifteen stationed out there. We staff the facility 24 hours a day so at any given time there are only six to eight of us onsite.

Being so isolated, and having gone through the construction and start-up process together, the fifteen of us are no strangers to peppering a task with muttered expletives. I mention this, not because I shocked my co-worker with my language, but to explain that expletives aren't off-putting nor all together noteworthy. They certainly don't dampen the holiday spirit.

Jim, the Plant Operator, ignored my muttering and walked up to the tree. He surveyed my work and found an understated but genuine compliment for the effort. Not looking up from my task I said thanks in a louder version of the same irritated tone I had slung toward the lightstring.

Frustrating job there? He asked.

Yeh, I sighed.

Always is, he said. Hey, don't worry about that. I'll get one of my guys to troubleshoot those lights for you.

Really?

Yeh, he said. They'll hook this up and get it firing right. It'll give my night shift something to do. Keep them awake

I don't have some diva sounding job title on my business card. Nobody says "Really, how fascinating!" at a cocktail party when I tell them what I do for a living. LES payroll doesn't help me out with spending cash for the holidays and there's no corporate discount at Starbucks. But I can say that being saved, by skilled electricians, from a string of Christmas lights is no small deal when it comes to job perks.




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Currently Reading: The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisernos (and) Hot, Flat, and Crowded by Thomas Friedman
Currently Watching: Torchwood Season 2
Naomi's Reading: Ivy and Bean book series by Anne Barrows
Current family dilemma: Naomi asks if we can turn her art/craft area into a chemistry lab. Stay tuned.

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.

Kicking Domesticity to the Curb

Sometimes I spend the weekend avoiding housework. Its a singular goal, completely self serving, and requires a surprising amount of effort. But sometimes Saturday morning rolls around and I make the decision to kick responsibility to the curb, turn a blind eye to the dishes and the dust bunnies, and revel in some ambition I'd saved for a rainy day.

Naomi and I trekked out for two Lincoln Safari adventures in a single morning. Hungry and energized by the Safari stops we had buttered biscuits and pancakes respectively at the Cracker Barrel. We sat down, over a crackling fire and warm plates of buttery goodness, to talk about saline wetlands, and endangered species. After all that science-stuff we played a nail-biter world-series set of Guess Who games.

The library held my latest read from Marisa de los Santos. I biked over, surrounded by autumn, to check it out and devoured the first two chapters in a single sitting.

The bathroom mirror fogged up from Sunday's long, hot shower.

I skipped church to sleep in.

McKibbin and I cooked food that only a grown-up could love.

I canvassed for Barack Obama in hopes that when history, or my kid, asks me "where were you when..." I'll have a good response.

I laughed at the raunchy, unrated versions of comedies available through my local Blockbuster.

I challenged my husband to a game of Scrabble, talked smack like nobody's business, and was thrilled by a final score where we tied.

I treated myself to a coffee-date with a long-ago-friend I found through Facebook. We giggled and had a great time like I had seen her just last week.

I spent more time being the person I intend to be (fun, thoughtful, inspired...) rather than allowing the hours to be consumed by the tasks I thought needed doing. The laundry still needs washing, the smudged windows persist. Beds don't make themselves, its true. This weekend I focused less on whether my sheets were folded into hospital corners and instead addressed the person laying down between them. It was time well spent.

I've Never Felt This Way About My Curbside Recycling Before

I was a child of the seventies. Disco music, feathered-hair and recycling are cornerstones of my earliest memories. I like the familiar rainfall sound of an aluminum pile collapsing in on itself. My parents stored old newspapers, 2 litre plastic bottles, and aluminum pieces in the back hall. We periodically loaded everything up to transport to the nearest recycling center. My dad and I would return the 16 oz glass Coke bottles to the Hinky Dinky grocery store for re-use. I guess you could say recycling has been a life-long habit of mine.

Curbside service made the effort more convenient. McKibbin and I have had curbside recycling since shacking up together eight years ago. It was one of the less noteworthy negotiations of moving-in. This week we switched curbside vendors to Star City Recycling. Wow, I'm enamored of everything they recycle! Plus, Star City donates some of their profits to the Lincoln Food Bank.

Let's see ...in addition to those fashionable yellow-bins with Star City Recycling I get:
* the convenience of curbside service,
* to recycle the basics plus items such as pagers and crayons (yes, crayons),
* to benefit the Lincoln Food Bank, and
* to be generally eco-fabulous.

At the risk of sounding like an infomercial I think for $11/month Star City Recycling is a steal!

The Commute

Last Wednesday I attended a conference in downtown Lincoln. The conference, while thought provoking and well done, was not the high point of the day. It was the short bike ride I took from my doorstep to the Cornhusker conference center.

McKibbin and I bought this house for many reasons. Price range, neighborhood, style of house...but its proximity to downtown was on the list of desirables. At the time I officed out of the Lincoln Electric Building. We closed on the house eleven days after Naomi was born. She was young enough I couldn't prop her up in the bike seat. But I had mapped out my future plan to commute to and from work by bike.

My office was moved to a remote generating site before my biker commuting habits really got started. No bike trails, no bus lines find their way to my work site now so I live for days where I have a conference or a day long downtown meeting. I hop on my purple bike, check the tires, don the helmet (because I'm too old to care about looking cool) and head out. Its as fast if not faster to bike as it would be to drive and park. Its healthier. Its less expensive. It contracts my carbon footprint. I'd like to say my biking preference stems from some deep virtue but its just more fun. I like biking. Coasting down hill is a sensation as close to floating (really, really fast floating) as I can imagine.

Hands down, the best part of my Wednesday was the fifteen minute commute from my door downtown; only bested by the return trip when the sun was out and the fall colors kicked into hyperdrive.

Dinner With Tess

About a week ago I came home from dinner with my family, logged onto my computer and had a survey from NPR's Marketplace asking how I felt about the $700 billion bail-out. I'm never short on strong opinions so I sat down and typed a furious diatribe. A cloud of mad-black-smoke rose steadily from my keyboard as I quoted my husband, my brother, my dad, and my mom from our dinner conversation. The web-based-form was peppered with my take on corporate greed, sub-prime mortgages, deregulation and predatory lending practices. Throw in a few expletives and you get the picture.

In one cathartic plunk of the "send" key I sent off my 2 cents worth into cyberspace thinking, "Whew, am I glad to have THAT off my chest!"

Twelve hours later I had a phone call from Marketplace Public Relations team. I thought the PR rep might suggest anger management therapy but instead she tactfully noted what a colorful family I must have. Then asked if we would be willing to host Tess Vigeland from Marketplace Money for dinner on Monday?

Long story short, and fast-forwarding through several utterances of "You have to be kidding me...", Ms. Vigeland was our dinner guest tonight. My dad played his vinyl recording of "I Hate to Wake Up Sober In Nebraska" before dinner. My mom cooked a lovely meal which culminated in something chocolate and fabulous. And I delighted in sitting down with a posse of smart and concerned people (my family) to talk about economics. It was a lively conversation, and a delightful dinner. One I won't soon forget.

Ms. Vigeland said to check out the evening Marketplace broadcast on Tuesday for our segment. Sadly, Nebraska Public Radio doesn't air the nightly evening show so you'll have to log onto www.marketplace.org to download the show, or check out Tess' blog and her photo gallery for her take on dinner with the Landis-McKibbin clan.

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.
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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.

Long And Winding Road

I had a front tire go out on me this year. If you knew the level of abuse my vehicles have historically been subjected to...this would come as no surprise.

Let's just say that my retired vehicles have a support group somewhere...probably in the same bar as my ex-boyfriends...and they sit around comparing war-wounds. But I had a belt in my tire snap this year. I took the car to a dealership thinking I had more massive damage, found out the culprit was the belt in my tire, and got a new tire.

The weird, out of body moment happened as I observed myself chasing down the manufacturer warranty on my defective tire. The fact that the word warranty came to mind, let alone that I bothered to state my claim was out of character to say the least. I became a warranty chaser. It was one of those revelations where I had to broaden my definition of myself. Embracing the curmudgeon within I drove out of the service station with a new tire free of charge. Balanced. Rotated. Squared. And free. Not in the liberated sense but in the monetary sense. Free.

I thought it was a blip. A one time occurrence. I drove away, examining the wrinkles and stern frown on my face in the rear view mirror. I told myself this was not a habit forming event. I etch-n-sketched the moment with a shake of the head and tried to erase the memory entirely from my mental hard drive.

It worked okay until Barnes and Noble jilted my daughter this summer. Now, now I never blew my stack. None of the customer service agents reeled with pain in the wake of our exchange. I asserted what I thought was fair and made sure my daughter got it.

The kicker was a sleepless night McKibbin and I spent in a hotel due to a party across the hallway. Who hasn't had this happen? You check-in. You soak in the hot tub. You climb into bed. And the party-goers get going. Any hotel is filled with scads of people, each having different agendas for the evening. Some intend to sleep, some intend to party. After several courteous, but unmistakably clear exchanges both our hotel neighbors and the front desk that McKibbin and I had the sleeping agenda; we checked out of the hotel at 2 a.m. to find a night's rest elsewhere. Before we left, however, I had secured a full refund of any room charges.

It's come to this. I'm the kill-joy. The image conjures a dark road ahead as that nit-picky-penny-pincher who gets out a calculator to divy up the check, the one who never tips well, who shames retail clerks into silence with antiquated phrases like "the customer is always right."

It might be a dark road ahead filled with an unending series stern conversations with various managers, my friends might begin to cringe whenever I get tepid coffee for fear I'll make a scene...it might be a long, dark, road I'm on here but, I can say, as I'm traveling this direction... my tires work just fine.

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.

What's The Carbon Footprint Of That?

At a gas stop in western Nebraska this week I looked over to see a Greyhound Bus sized RV with a full-sized hummer in tow. The big, silver tube in the background is a fuel truck. I think the RV might consider taking that in-tow, too, based on its fossil fuel needs. I had to snap a picture to make sure I wasn't stuck in a nightmare.

My brain hurts to imagine the eco-karma this driver, or his/her kids, might suffer from later in 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.

A Camping Trip Deferred

Naomi led a week-long case of the stomach yucks at the McKibbin house. She landed in the Emergency Room Thursday in a somewhat delirious state only brought to full-consciousness by waves of writhing stomach cramps. Pretty ugly stuff.

All things digestive were still a muck as Naomi tearfully called her cousins to decline their invitation to trek over to the neighbor's backyard, pitch a pup tent and spend Saturday night under the stars. Movie night with Naomi's parents sporting Pepto-Bismal and a heating pad fell a far distant second to the camping excursion.

At one point I thought we were making the best of things. We played a couple of board games. McKibbin and I offered to take Naomi camping next weekend. We agreed to select a camp site near a lake for swimming. Her favorite comfort foods were abundantly littered all over the dinner plate. Drying our eyes about 7 pm we started the Naomi movie marathon. Brent ducked downstairs to make a bowl of popcorn.

After the opening credits we paused the movie to wait for the popcorn. I took on that shrill impersonation of Mary Poppins I do whenever my kid is disappointed; Naomi interrupted to look me in square in the eyes and say "they're probably eating hot dogs and roasting marshmallows over the camp-fire this very instant."

Worst of all it was probably true.

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.

Heat Wave

If you can't stand the heat, don't tickle the dragon
-- Annonymous

The weather dictated my weekend. If outdoor chores, like weeding the garden or vacuuming out the backseat crumbs that cling under Naomi's child seat, were undone by 10 a.m. the task was rendered unbearable.

The heat similarly dictated my schedule almost a decade ago. It was unusually hot that first summer I moved to Denver. My studio apartment in Capital Hill didn't offer the creature comfort of air conditioning. With any semblance of a cross breeze drawing dust and fumes from the alley the place was uninhabitable by 11 a.m. I lived the life of an conditioning squatter that summer. Pulled the blinds closed, and left the apartment in search of climate control. The public library offered me refuge. Similarly I frequented free Saturdays at the Denver Art Museum. Its best not to ask, and I refrain from naming how many times I toured Molly Brown's house.

At thirty-five I reside in an air conditioned box known as a house. In contrast to my response to unbearable weather as a twenty-something which was to go out, my resolve this time was to beat the heat by staying inside. Naomi and I pulled closed the curtains, turned down the a/c and played board games. We read some silly books and sang karaoke like we were rock stars. Our tongues yelped this noon from all the frozen fruit popsicles we'd eaten.

The heat wave, McKibbin informs me, is supposed to break mid week. I'll be glad for the freedom cooler weather allows but, like that first summer in Denver, I have enjoyed the search for cooler climates.

Not The Goal But The Game

Last Sunday my folks and I teamed up to complete the Cornhusker State Games Triathlon. Mom swam, dad biked, and I ran. My brother, Matt, did all three events on his own. Matt had trained really hard so his time mopped up the floor with the rest of us who were ill prepared. We did our best, though, and eventually crossed the finish-line.

Having finished ninth out of nine teams entered in the race, I mention the triathlon with no claim to bragging rights. I'm pleased, however, to have been part of the family effort. I've generally been a loner when it comes to exercise. I was never on a soccer or volleyball team. I train for the marathon by myself. My MP3 player serves as my gym-buddy. I don't attended group classes much. I'm in the habit of pretty much doing my own thing which works out well most of the time.

So this Triathlon was really my first stab at teaming up. It meant a lot to me. I've attached a picture to this post of my mom in her swim cap, fresh from the water, and dad giving her a congratulatory hug. The blond pony-tail belongs to me. My sister-in-law, Jen, was the cornerstone of our cheering section. As the morning rolled on the booster club was improved by the arrival of my Aunt Carol, husband McKibbin and daughter Naomi.

The 5k run was the last leg of the triathlon. Naomi joined me on the last several meters of the course. We basked in the pleasant company waiting for us at the finish. Go team.

The Game Plan

Me: Ms. Mo rolls into town tonight.
McKibbin: Yeh?
Me: Yeh.*pause* Ms. S is having a get together at her house.
McK: Yeh?
Me: Yeh. I was planning to head over around 6. Wanna come?
McK: Mmmm…..yeh.
Me: Yeh?
McK: Yeh.
Me: Its gonna be Ms. E, Ms. C, Ms. S, Ms. M, Ms. Mo, and me.
McK: Should I not come?
Me: No, no you should come if you want. We’d love to have you there.
McK: So what are you saying?
Me: I’m just saying its an estrogen line up.
McK: Yeh?
Me: Yeh. Except if you want to come it becomes an estrogen line up plus you.
McK: And that means what?
Me: Well, if your testosterone doesn't tip the balance, it means pillow fights and a throw down tickle war.
McK: Yeh?
Me: Yeh.
McK: I’ll come. *pause* You should mention that on your blog though.
Me: That you came with me to see Ms. Mo?
McK: No, the estrogen team game plan. Any mention of a throw down tickle war is guaranteed a thousand hits on Google.
Me: Yeh?
McK: Yeh.
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Currently reading: A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
Currently listening To: Vault of the Heavens: Exploring the Solar System's Place in the Universe
Anxiously awaiting: Eureka Season 3 Premier (July 29th)

All Cooked Up and Ready To Go

This summer we've taken up the task of teaching Naomi to cook. She is responsible for feeding our family dinner one night every week.

McKibbin and I spend a fair amount of time in the kitchen. Naomi has been curious about cooking for a long time. Factor in her role in setting the finicky end of the finicky-eater bell curve and you'll understand how fervently Naomi's parents urge her to learn to cook. The kitchen also offers up moments to teach Naomi about nutrition, units of measure and fractions.

As August approaches Naomi is rather proud of her culinary stylings. She's quick to mention the challenge of scrambling eggs or grating cheese for nachos. Hand the girl a Boboli crust and she can assemble a pizza with the best of 'em. Tonight the undertaking was a noodle soup concoction which she devoured in a single slurp. Basically the soup was ramen noodles fully loaded with veggies. She cooked up her soup in the hotpot I acquired as a freshman in college.

As I blew the dust off my hotpot I realized Naomi could already cook the staples of my college cuisine. Actually she could have stopped with scrambled eggs and nachos and had it covered.

My Lazy Weekend

For the first time seven weeks the McKibbin weekend didn't include a trek to remodel the cabin. We opted to pull a week night shift instead. Its not a bad routine. Brent behind the wheel as I read our book out-loud on the drive to Crete. Several hours with an array of hand tools and demolition. Any time I need a hand, or have questions McKibbin helps out. He doesn't get frustrated, really, which helps me follow suit. Its not bad. Tiring and dusty but not bad.

The remodeling process has been a huge lesson for me about patience. I'm an instant gratification sort of person at heart. I start projects with a rush of energy and fade quickly as the days wear on. With McKibbin's strengths in the remodeling area, a day's labor gains as much ground as any contractor would. With one day a week dedicated to the effort, however, we don't get much traction so its slow going. I remind myself of two things: (1) by this time next year I'll be tickled pink about the cabin; (2) all good things are worth waiting for. At this moment, however, I'm pretty exhausted and tickled ibuprofen. It was nice to take the weekend off.

________________________________________

One of the things I did with my weekend was tend the tangle of weeds which occupies the flower and vegetable beds at our house. You'd be surprised what survives my neglect. We had some sweet peas earlier this year. The heirloom tomatoes are about ripe. Chives. Parsley. But, oh, gosh the basil! Sweet Basil! We have it coming out of our ears.

Please, please next time you're in a pesto making mood swing by our house so we can hook you up.
________________________________________
I did finish The Other by David Guterson. I wrote a review on Goodreads.com. Check it out.

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!

Running the Weekend Numbers

Naomi Play-Dates: 2
Lincoln Safari Stops: 3
Pony Rides at the Zoo: 1
"Big Dig" Sandbox Fossils Found: 4
Mosquito Bites: 2
SPF factor: 45
Haircuts: 1
Richter Scale Reading for Haircut: 7 (extreme)
Haircut Remorse: 80 fold the Richter Scale Reading
Water Balloons: 6
Water Balloon Mis-haps: 1
Duration of Continuous Giggling from Balloon-Soaked Backseat: 5 min
Jogging Pedometer Two-Day Reading: 8 mi
Dr. Who Episodes Watched: 3
Iced Toddy Carmel Lattes Consumed: 2
Family Dinners: 2
IRS Economic Stimulus Deposit into Bank Account: 1
Cabin E-grade Replacement Windows Purchased: 8
Times McKibbin Explained the Merits of E-grade Windows to Me: 10
Sketches and Graphics Required For Me to Understand E-Grade Properties: 3

It's What's for Dinner

I have long believed that good food, good eating is all about risk.
- Anthony Bourdain Kitchen Confidential

We were divvying up the vegetable box from the Community Supported Agriculture program last night and came across a kohlrabi. Now I don't want to make the CSA program sound like it fills your house with odd looking vegetables. For the most part the weekly box of greens is filled with everyday items like onions, tomatoes, berries, snow peas, etc. But this kohlrabi was thrown in for the more adventurous crowd.

N let out an involuntary ew. She was aghast by the space-alien-looking vegetable occupying her father's hand. She dared us to eat it.

McK and I looked at each other warily waiting for the other to flinch. Turns out a kohlrabi is from the cabbage family, and the CSA box contained a salad recipe for it. Taking the cabbage relation, the recipe, and the dare into account it was pretty clear what we were having for dinner. It was actually really good.

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.