The Hit List -- Not That Kind, Silly

The year's end inspires a singular sort of melancholy. In wrapping up 2010, however, I'm feeling more like Dick Clark than Barbara Walters so I'll just list the hits in my best Top-40 Style.

10.Favorite New Habit: Spending Saturday mornings with Naomi in my bed reading books. One of us makes a plate of apples and cheese to munch on. I doze in and out of sleeping for another 40 minutes.

9.Favorite Phrase: Less is not more, more is more, and more and more is even better!

8.Garden Favorite: Fresh Salsa (properly pronounced: Sals-ahhhh!)

7.Work Favorite: I'm a goody-goody. Always have been. I'm the grown up version of the curly haired girl who sat in the front row and always raised her hand in class. The one who bobbles her head with glee when she provides the right answer. As I walked back to my cubicle after my performance appraisal this year, there was some head bobbling.

6.Parent Group Favorite: The Prescott Walk-a-ton. The very air around this event felt charged with positive energy. I'd say Naomi spoke of the occasion from Cloud 9, but she couldn't see Cloud 9 from how high she was. Plus the event raised a lot of money for the outdoor classroom a group of Prescott Parents have actively pursued.

5.Favorite Car Music: What's The Rumpus? by Gaelic Storm, though, depending on the weather, it might be Munich by Corine Bailey Rae.

4.Favorite Musical Surprise from Naomi: She came home from a weekend cowgirl camp singing this song. I thought my stomach might explode from laughing so hard.

3.Favorite Television Find: Warehouse 13 or The Closer for completely different reasons.

Warehouse 13 is good, geeky fun that I'm not embarrassed to watch with my kid.

The Closer is a show that started with a female lead character and (thankfully) has avoided the common pitfall of female lead shows. Commonly the interesting, competent, compelling female lead character gets sidelined for the "perfect man" search, or the "oh, work and family...it's just so hard!" story arc. I'm four seasons in and the female lead (beautifully portrayed by Kyra Sedgewick) is still the central character. Love it.

2.Favorite Board Game: Nab-It

1.Favorite Home Improvements:

• Wood floor restored to the upstairs bedroom of the house (January)
• Cabin has siding (September)
• Cabin has a deck (July)
  

What I Loved This Weekend

Trimming the Christmas tree with an 8-piece collection of clay ornaments Naomi made.

Our make-shift breakfast on Christmas morning of apples, cheese, cashews & coffee. Sitting around with Naomi & McK to play board games.

After singing some Christmas Carols with my grandmother, on the drive home, my mom took the occasion to appreciate out loud the joy this bunch of us can inspire in my grandmother. Whether Gracele remembers it or not it’s still there to be had (joy) if only for an instant. At ninety-one and this many years deep into dementia that can’t be said for everyone.

Each year my family reads something to each other. Something we read, or something we wrote this past year that resonates. It’s a tradition each member of my family opts in and out of on various years. Sometimes you don’t have time to find the passage you want to read, sometimes you can’t think of something appropriate. So it’s optional but also a tradition that means a great deal to me. This year my mom read from The Trial of Standing Bear, dad read a charming kid’s book, Jen read a section from You Go, Girl!, my brother read from his journal, and I read an excerpt from Elizabeth Gilbert.

Watching Naomi perform a four-song Christmas music and dance review for my family. Audience participation was encouraged. The performance was equal parts music-dance-cheer. She had an infectious level of enthusiastic merriment from which I still haven't recovered.

Chromatography

At the close of yesterday I realized the day's events were doused in a red dye of some sort. I'll tell you three stories about my encounters with the color red in no particular order.

1. Red Dress - There was a holiday occasion last night that resembled a lost sock drawer of old friends. People I know from different parts of my life who have moved away or into other circles around town. People who were back around for the holidays and we were generally congregating at Yia-Yia's last night for pizza and beer.

On any given day I am flush with love for these sorts of occasions. With this whole unbloggable life condition, though, I was a little nervous about going. A little known trick of mine came in handy, though: when I'm feeling a little insecure I'll make an unusually bold fashion choice.

Bodhi Imports sported a window display of exactly the bold outfitting required. The subtext of the dress read something like, "My life is f-ing great, no need to ask!" I promptly walked into the store, bought dress and wore it to Yia-Yia's. It was all good and, nope, nobody asked. Not even once.


2. Red Bottlecap - My relationship with Dr. Pepper is both long standing and extremely gratifying. Yesterday McK miracled me with this retro-Pepper. It's sweetened with real sugar rather than corn syrup. Ah, I'm speechless to describe such bliss.



2. Red Tins - We were invited to attend a Caroling Party later this week. Naomi and I often make a tuneful sort of noise so we were quick to accept the invitation.

This party allowed me to test-drive and ultimately deliver some recipes I'd been eyeing for a while. In two red tins I packaged up some Rosemary-Cashews and Cinnamon-Brushed-Almonds. Mmmmm.

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Currently Watching: The Closer (Season 3)
Recent Goodness: Homemade Caramels
Quote of My Day: "Carol big -- or stay home, baby!"
(The throw-down dare extended by kids hosting, with some help from their parents, the caroling party)

Inside the Mold

I resolved to cook up a big pot of Carrot-Cilantro soup before Christmas. I've always liked giving holiday gifts that come from my kitchen. So last night Naomi and I were in the aisles of the grocery store, goofing around, and stocking up on soup ingredients.

Naomi: You know what you should make instead of this soup, mom?
Me: What's that?
Naomi: Some really fancy Jello.
Me: Jello?
Naomi: Yeh. It's ~so~ tasty.
Me: Special holiday...Jello?
Naomi: I think people would really like it.
Me: You know...uh...it sounds weird, Naomi, but I'm not that good at making Jello.
Naomi: Well, we could find you a good recipe or something.
Me: Actually Jello is one of those foods I liked so much when I was a kid, and ate so much of it that I don't eat Jello so much anymore.
Naomi: Really? That's too bad, mommy.

Surfacing

Oh, blog, how I’ve missed you. The past couple of months have been preoccupied by an unbloggable life condition.

Even at its hardest, however, my life and surroundings offer up a series of moments of clarity. Actually that’s an understatement. The moments are more than just clear, they’re beautiful really.

I suppose restarting this blog-versation comes with an urge to reconnect some of the moments that dot the silence. Here goes.

...
The McK household took a trip to Mexico's Baja Peninsula in October. The blue sky, the sting of salt water. We spent a fabulous day on the beach in La Paz. Toured a ghost mining town. Found a Hotel California McK & I schemed about asking the desk clerk what time check out would be. Naomi had chocolate milkshakes for breakfast. She body surfed the ocean waves. I hope to carry with me always the melodious sound of her cackling with whoops and laughter as she tumbled out of the crested wave and washed up on the sand. Our Baja adventure coined the philosophy that, in Latino culture, less is not more – more is more – and more and more is even better.
...
With an assignment from school, Naomi had her first experience with the World Book Encyclopedia set. I was surprised, in an age of Wikipedia and Google, that the hardcover series would still hold such wonder. She was bedazzled. I remember the same sensation with the bound volumes of an encyclopedia. The creak of the binding, the way the world felt closer to me through these pages. Sitting at the small, South Branch library with Naomi and the World Book I was surprised how deeply the memory resonated.
...
I was driving to work in November and there was this thin layer of ice on the bare tree branches. The sunlight hit the icy surface and gave off this drippy sort of cold, wet glistening trick with the light. It was lovely. Reminded me of crying. The way things take on strange properties when I have tears in my eyes. The lens isn't just blurred but sometimes spins or melts or glistens. The fingers of each branch barely resembled their usual appearance.
...
I was driving Naomi home from school one night. After a long silence from the back seat, she gazed out the dark window and asked..."Do you think humans will ever have tails again? That would come in handy, I think."
...
The lovely Ms. Mo breezed through town over the Thanksgiving holiday. I had the good fortune to see her not just once but twice during her trip.
...
The fabulous Ms. B landed in Nebraska after her stint in the Peace Corps. We spent a lovely afternoon drinking tea and talking over books and life.
...
I’ve spent a series of delightful afternoons in the patient company of Ms. C.

Among heavy life-topics we had a spirited discussion about a word, “wearifully”, which was on a spelling list our children brought home from school. After a lot of debate and several dictionary references, Ms. C and I are convinced: wearifully is not a word. Both Naomi & Isabel can spell it because they’re dedicated students, however, it is not a word.
...
My dad has stopped by or otherwise orchestrated a couple of lively family dinners. Always a delight.
...
I took a lovely trip to Boulder last weekend to run the Colder-Boulder 5K. Browsed bookstores. Curled up in an enormous hotel bed. Took the restaurant hostess up on her offer to be seated at a “community table” one sunny morning. Talked about communism and world travel and women’s history with my table companion.
....
Even at its hardest it's a good life.

The Dilemma

Driving back from Springfield, MO yesterday. Stopped at Taco Bell. I've never had my packet of salsa propose marriage before. If you know how much I love salsa, you can appreciate the dilemma this posed.

Worth Noting

Using one of my favorite turns of phrase in quite some time, the Telegraph pays tribute to "the almost freakishly benign gift to the civilised world that is Jon Hamm’s handsomeness."

Multi-Function

So I have this tricked out calculator. One that performs trig functions, solves for multivariables, creates graphs and, by shear super-power strength, limps me along through my calculus homework.

Naomi picked up my calculator the other day as it was buried under crumpled up papers and textbooks. What's this? She wondered.

Me: It's my calculator, honey.
Naomi: What do these buttons do? She touched the top row lightly.
Me: Higher forms of math. Like trigonometry.
Naomi: More like magic, right?
Me: Mmm-hmmm, more like magic.

Window Display

I'm thinking they should have been more specific about what ~type~ of pie. The squids might have responded differently.

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Currently Reading: Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach
Dinner Line Up: Spinach/Garlic/Cheesy Potato thing I baked up in my brain with Fresh Tomatoes
Currently Listening To: All Sorts of Rickie Lee Jones

Exam Schedule

At about 3 o’clock today I finished the last in my first series of exams for this fall semester. Achy and tired, I felt as if I were crawling out from under a heavy pile of textbooks and slogging through the dregs from my coffee-pot.

I walked out of the test proctor’s office sat down in the campus’ grassy quad, closed eyes and turned my face toward late afternoon sun. During exams a younger rendering of myself used to meet my friend, Mac, every day on the CSU Oval. We’d quiz each other on our shared courses: Dendrology, Geology, Rangeland Ecology…lots of ologies.

One year, during spring finals, we met up for lunch and a Hydrology cram session in our usual spot. And, like an off-on switch I fell fast asleep. Never realized I was tired, went from talking (ka-plunk) to sleeping, then woke up in a puddle of drool in the grass. My books and note-cards were zipped up in my backpack. The sandwich wrappers, paper bags, spent napkins from lunch already landed in their proper trash receptacle. Mac was nowhere to be found. I wondered how long I had been sleeping there? Wondered what the proper amount of embarrassment would be for a 22 year old caught sleeping in a public space?

With my eyes closed today on the campus quad I realized I wouldn’t be at all embarrassed, now, to sleep. Wouldn’t particularly care who might find me napping on the quad. It was other things that kept me from it: the large pile of neglected laundry in my basement, the curry concoction I wanted to doctor up for dinner, Naomi needing me to pick her up in 45 minutes. Disorienting as it had once been to wake up on the campus oval it was a memory I was glad I could revisit if not recreate.

Fate

Because sometimes the fortune cookie just calls it like it is.

Geolocate

Fall coursework started a couple of weeks ago. I’m taking the last in a series of calculus courses and one in surveying. Not the telephone type survey. The geolocation stuff. Surveying of control points then becoming preoccupied with locating objects and measuring distances accurately.

The subject resonates with the way I’ve spent the last several months considering the distance between objects – physical, chronological, emotional. How isolated we’ll sometimes feel from the things around us.

In my twenties I made the habit of holding feet with people. Boyfriends. I’d hold feet with my old boyfriends. I’ve always been embarrassed by my clammy hands so instead I’d hold feet. Slip my foot out from its shoe and place it on top of his as we'd sit at the dinner table or as the movie theater darkened. A quirky little habit my companion would eventually grow accustomed to. You can sense a lot about a person once you know where they’ve planted their feet.

But that's where the surveying field leaves off. It provides an accurate dataset for locating objects but never speaks to is how to close the distance between them. Studying late last night I thought about sending an email to the authors of my textbook. This urgent message or helpful critique of mine is sort of idea that could only sound appropriate after 1AM. But I thought the text could use some anecdotal data. My personal recommendation on closing the space between objects: have them hold feet.

_________________________
Quote of My Day: “It’s a Muggle world we live in, Mom.”

How to Be Alone

Return to Sender

I've been working with a problem contractor at work recently. It's a situation that has preoccupied the last couple of weeks with tense meetings, written reprimands, contract language disputes, etc.

Today was the latest round of our meetings. It followed the usual script where I arrive with a list of what I need, what is and isn't done, and indicate that if these action items aren't addressed in a timely manner that we'll take the exit clause of our contract. I speak in a deeply serious and disappointed tone which I consider my Gillian Anderson X-files personae. No smiling.

At the close of today's meeting I recapped the action items, shut my briefcase, stood up to shuffle a couple of business cards around the table, then pivoted to leave the construction trailer.

"What's this?" I heard somebody ask. He held up my business card, flicked it around to show the backface which sported a brightly colored "Hi, Mommy!!!" written in my eight-year-old's hand. The business card message was complete with hearts and smiley faces.

"Ah, yes." I said. "Well, I guess that one's for me."

_____________________
Reading with Naomi: Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
Weekend Soundtrack: Under The Falling Sky (Bonnie Raitt)
Thoroughly Enjoying: Eureka (Season 4)
Recent Pang of Feeling Old: When the Lincoln City Council Approved
a 2AM bar close, I thought "Ugh!"
Random Offering: I highly recommend reading THIS article about Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

Fresh Salsa

My vegetable garden has evolved into a whole new level of meaning...

Network Censors

Naomi, frustrated, comes upstairs from the basement. I'd heard her scolding the cats down there. Sorting laundry is a thankless enough task without the cats mucking the whole thing up. She scolded them with a profane phrase I hadn't heard from her lips before.

Me: You upset?
Naomi: Yes.
Me: The cats?
Naomi: Stupid cats.
Me: Did I hear you call them little 5h!ts while you were downstairs?
Naomi: You call them that sometimes.
Me: I do. [pause] I wonder if both of us couldn't do better on that score?
Naomi: Fine.
Me: Thanks, babe.
Naomi: Sure. [pause] I think it's a bad example you've set here, mom. You know, with that kind of language.

Low Maintenance

About a month ago I bought this new perfume-y body spray. Tea Tree& Lemon scent. I found it in the clearance bin at Walgreens. Tested it in the aisle. Pleasant enough smell. I bought it and, in the store parking lot, plopped it directly into the front pocket of the gym bag I keep in my trunk.

Used it, this noon, to gussy myself up a bit after a stint on the treadmill. For an hour now I've been sniffing the skin at my shirt collar. Holding the inside skin of my wrist to my nose. Searching for the familiar chord the smell strikes. Its like humming those first three notes of a song I can't name. Until, out of the blue, it comes to me and I sort of giggle with relief.

I smell like furniture polish. I really do. All lemony and dust-free. Not exactly the most sophisticated fragrance but, in a pinch, it's not bad.

Quote of My Day

So, Mom, I got to talk to a bridge engineer today....
-Naomi

Last week Naomi was part of Wilderness Camp through the local Nature Center. The campgrounds are inside of Wilderness Park and fashion a nature-curriculum that lands this gaggle of forty-some-odd kids outside all day hiking, catching bugs, crossing creeks, building forts, etc.

Excuse me as I state the glaringly obvious, but, Naomi had a fabulous (almost magical) time. I'd pick her up each afternoon and her hair smelled hot and dusty. Her mouth fixed in its toothy grin for hours afterwards.

Naomi was part of the team of campers on the Wilderness Park Bridge when it buckled on Wednesday. Nobody was hurt. Shaken. But not hurt. One girl twisted her ankle but after an ice-pack she was just fine.

The camp organizers called the parents immediately to let us know what happened, and also report that everyone was well and good.

I picked up Naomi that afternoon and sort of nudged around to get her take on the days events. I was trying to see if she needed to talk it out. When prompted Naomi readily gave up the goods on what happened. Though I had to chuckle because the days events were less focused on the bridge itself and more centered on the engineering team who came out after-the-fact to inspect the footings.

Gassed-Up

I had a friend once confide in me she can’t stand to fill up the gas tank of her car. We were having a beer and I can’t recall how the subject came up, but will forever remember this friend giggling her way through the tale of how excruciating the sight of that LOW FUEL light was on her dashboard.

There was so much involved at the gas station, she said. The way she had to swipe her credit card, respond to those stupid questions on the display screen, and then wait and wait and wait through the slow tick of the pump. The way she told the story with a series of exhausted sighs you’d think gassing up her car could eat up the whole day if she let it.

I wondered if she drove a gas guzzler? Something with a huge tank that took forever to fill? Nope, she sported a Nissan something-or-another that was light on its feet. The trouble wasn’t the time, really, it was the vision of all those cars whizzing past the intersection while she was standing still. Her mental to-do list multiplied inside her brain with every moment she stood still.

Problem solved, though. She never filled up her tank anymore. The amount of fuel she purchased was determined by how long she could stand to just stand there.

With that abrasive sense of teasing I fall into with some of my closest friends I told her this whole gas pump obsession was really, really crazy.

I thought of her bar-stool story the other day as I was out running errands. I stopped to fill up the tank of my car and looked at the crowded gas station islands. How there wasn’t a single person just standing still. Eight gas pumps. Eight people with cell phones attached to their heads. Mine included.

I considered the time obsessed undercurrent to our lives. The whole idea being that we’ll double-up or cut the corners of the unimportant tasks with the intent of more fully focusing on that which is important. But my mind gets hooked on the rush of crossing lots of items off some master to-do list. So much so that the slower, more intentional, actions that were once the prize of the whole set up become an annoyance.

Don't get me wrong: I'm still a list maker and I still get a zing from crossing things off the list. But I'm working on that other part. That part where I give something or someone my undivided attention. There are occasions and people that deserve nothing less.
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Dinner Line Up: Feta Cheese-Veggie Burgers, Spinach & Strawberry Salad, Sweet Potato Fries with Sea-Salt
Currently Watching: Building Big (PBS)
Recent Events: McK took me to see the movie Inception and I've had creepy, cool dreams ever since.
Weekend Soundtrack: Man of the Hour (Nora Jones)

Day Made

Naomi: Mom, I thought up a nickname for you today.

Me: Really?

Naomi: Mmm-hmmmm, wanna know what it is?

Me: Is it nice?

Naomi: It's honest.

Me: Ew.

Naomi: Wanna know what it is?

Me: OK...sure.

Naomi: I made your name be Super-Cool.

Hanging Around On Any Regular Sunday

N posed this family photo yesterday. Chimpanzee cards and all. It made me laugh out loud.

Misplacement

I’ve misplaced my wedding ring. My thumb keeps rubbing against that fleshy part of my ring finger. I’ve searched jeans pockets and gym bags. No go.

I’d like very much to say that misplacing things is unlike me. Unfortunately it’s entirely like me. So much so that, years ago, I took no pleasure at all in the whole wedding-ring-shopping experience.

The thought of spending so much money on something so small, so easily lost made me so worried I was queasy. Some of my friends discussed various remedies: size the ring small enough that you can’t take it off, take out an insurance rider on the ring, dedicate a spot for every time you take it off to shower or wash dishes. Good advice, all in all, but I work outside sometimes and with enough machinery that I have to take off my jewelry. Also my fingers swell every time I work out so the on-and-off routine with this ring was going to be both frequent and sporadic.

I ended up buying my wedding ring at Shopko. In their clearance bin for $10. I bought four copies of the same ring. (I love Shopko, by the way) So when I say I’ve misplaced my wedding ring, I understate the situation a smidge: I’ve misplaced the last of the back-up copies of my wedding ring.

I'm not a huge shopper so it's seldom I would recall a purchase of any sort. This one though I remember. There was a freakishly long line at the check-out lane so I had a moment to contemplate whether or not it was really necessary to purchase wedding rings in bulk. I wondered if marriage might change me. Make me more responsible, less likely to lose small objects like wallets and keys and jewelry. I tried to envision this transformed, better organized version of myself. Closed my eyes to see it clearly. I was finally brought out of it by the irritated tone of the check-out clerk.

“Can I help you?” the words mumbled from her tongue.

I blushed and stepped forward. Tasked with conjuring a vision of the hypothetical Melissa-who-doesn’t-lose-things my very, very active imagination had drawn a complete blank.

Yep, I thought as I unloaded my basket onto the Shopko counter. I’m going to need these.

_____________________
Currently Watching: The Good Wife
Currently Reading: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
Recently Enjoyed: Engineering an Empire (Sadly its one and only season on The History Channel)
Excited to Attend: Janet's 40th Surprise Birthday Party in Denver. She's throwing it herself.

Lemonade

Thank-you to everyone who stopped by Naomi's (sometimes singing, sometimes reading, sometimes photo-posing) Lemonade Stand this afternoon!

American Girl

Naomi has joined a Summer Reading Program book-club. It's a Tuesday night occasion at one of the public library branches we don't generally frequent. The reading list of American Girl books piqued Naomi's interest, though, and I was quick to agree to chauffeur her back and fourth.

While these Tuesday occasions are located in my least favorite corner of Lincoln I have to say the book club itself is actually a fine time. Glue-sticks, glittery craft activities and a group of clever girls discussing the latest text. It's also lead by two teen-aged sisters and their mom with a whole lot of enthusiasm.

The hard moment comes at the close of each Tuesday. When the group leader has encouraged each reader to bring her American Girl doll and stand up to talk about the dolls. Have you seen these dolls? They're lovely, actually, and apparently rather well made. They also lighten your wallet by $95 for just the doll. Accessories and outfits run anywhere between $30 and $200.

Years ago, when Naomi first became infatuated with the American Girl series, she got the message loud and clear that the books were great but the product-line wasn't going to be something we could afford. All kids have something and no kids have everything. She was remarkably OK with that.

But it irritated me to have a book club, at the public library, wind up every session with a 20 minute product plug. That irritation took a sharp turn to out-and-out pain this past weekend when my kid took a magic marker to the forehead of her favorite doll to draw bangs. Washed the doll's synthetic hair in an attempt to style it. And purple-crayon-colored a make-shift duct-tape dress all in an attempt to have her doll resemble the other dolls the girls brought.

Seriously? I was sick to my stomach as we walked into the book club. Naomi toting this doll under her arm. I had the foreboding sense that the other girls would laugh at her, or sneer with condescension. The gait to my walk was daring someone, anyone, in the room to look down on my kid or curl their lip at her creation because, believe me, I had prepared a few choice words to say about that.

We walked in, sat the doll on the table next to our name tents, and Naomi put her hand on my arm. Are you OK, mommy? her worried eyes asked. And, for a moment, I saw it. She wasn't particularly worried about this doll. She was too busy being concerned about why I was so upset.

Rather than spending the hour like a taut rubber band waiting to snap, which I was fully prepared to do, I looked at those worried eyes and decided to instead focus on my amazing kid. A person who is imaginative, resourceful, and has an enormous heart. She took her turn at that table, talked about this scraggly doll who looked suddenly beautiful to both of us and, at the end of the day, sort of fluffed up feeling both unique and inventive.

There was another little girl, by the way, who didn't have an American Girl doll. She and Naomi huddled up after-wards. The other girl (Bridget) and her mother were duct-tape connoisseurs, I guess. They mentioned that Target carries a plaid duct-tape, and sometimes, sometimes you can find polka-dot patterned duct-tape at Hobby Lobby. Helpful information for Naomi's future fashions.

Self Disclosure

At the dinner table, yesterday, my family took a moment to coordinate schedules. This is less of a coordinated effort as it is the occurrence of my asking "So, what's coming up?" and penning dates and times into my day planner.

N was quick to list every bike ride and movie night she wanted to schedule. McK spoke in generalities without times or dates involved. Lots of margin notes, there.

I flipped the page, briefly, to July and made mention of a writing assignment due date.

"I bring-it up only because the subject matter has me kind of crazy, grateful for you guys. So, if you walk in on me crying for no reason...you know...don't be concerned."

I let the comment hang in the air a moment, considered how genuinely odd the forewarning was, and glanced around at my dinner companions neither of whom bats a eye at my quirky moments. Aren't they just the sweetest?

Pushing Through the Imperfections

I’m trying to learn to be a better seamstress. Naomi has visions that I’ll sew fashionable dresses though that’s well beyond my skill-set. I’m more focused on alterations. As a chronic thrift-store shopper, I’m hoping to more often wear clothes that actually fit me.

I did manage to sew Naomi a dress for Laura Ingalls camp. Not without hard alcohol and lots of swearing but it's finished.

Generally I think that’s what I’m working on: to finish things. Well beyond my sewing projects I’ll take up this or that project, aspire to loveliness, get frustrated and give up.

I’m trying to work through the imperfections and finishing things anyway. So, ugly as this little dress was, I did finish it. My daughter was delighted. And, when it was all done, I could see that for a first effort it wasn’t too bad.

Neither Brave Nor Bold

I’m almost too embarrassed to even tell you this story. Almost. I’ll be brief.

Naomi got a hankering to go swimming yesterday. With the summer heat and a mid-week lul at our house, her poolside plan sounded like a good one. I was quick to sign on. Then looked everywhere but failed to locate my usual swim suit. I found myself caught between canceling our swimming plans or wearing a suit I knew was stashed at the bottom of my never-ever-think-I’ll-actually-wear-but-keep-it-just-in-case pile of clothes in the hall closet.

Does everyone have one of these piles? It’s a stack of sparkly dresses, flashy hats, impractical shoes, and a black bikini. Modest, as far as bikinis go, but still a bikini and therefore completely outside my norm. The suit was so far outside my usual fashion that Naomi was gobsmacked (and a little embarrassed for me) as I came downstairs to find my beach towel.

It’s not that I suddenly quit it with my body issues. I just decided to focus instead on the delightful company of my kid. Not exactly my boldest moment, but a small accomplishment I hadn't had before.
_____________________________
Currently Listening to: The American Inquisition: The Era of McCarthyism
Recent Goodness: Fresh salad greens from Ms. C's garden.
Random Product Plug: Anyone who knows me knows that I'm just not so much with cosmetics, but, I recently purchased Amazemint lip-gloss. Cover Girl should seriously ~seriously~ ask me to do a commercial for them because I love it THAT much!
Quote of My Day: Naomi observed my penchant for music that's "filled up with sad feelings."

The Story of This

Five years legit.

The Joy of Being Wild

Naomi and I went for a hike last weekend and she cooked up the idea of writing a book. She thought up a title she was particularly fond of. Put her fingers to her lips as she spoke the words: The Joy of Being Wild.

From there, my pen and paper chased after her brainstorm trying to capture the dust as it fell down behind her. Here's some of the advice my paper caught:

Do cartwheels in the open grass.

Ford rivers often. It gets your feet nice and icy cold.

Eat purple plants.

Look straight at the sun with your eyes clamped shut.

Dig around in the dirt.

Let your hair blow all over the place.

Appreciate the privilege it is to live here.

Boxed-Up

My friend, Ms. Mo, packs up her apartment this week. With Ojibwa summer ceremonies, Mo gave thirty day notice on her apartment. Her lease is up at the end of this month so sometimes I stop by to help her pack. Started this effort last week. I stopped over, like I might on any given Saturday, with Thai food and some music to listen to. The contents of her cupboards and bookshelves filled. Moving was more of a theoretical exercise rather than a practicality. The boxes, like our conversation, had no particular destination.

I’ve stopped by on a couple of nightly occasions since to help sort her CD collection or fold clothes or whatnot. And what started as a small silence between us slowly swelled to fill up the emptying space.

Last night we were boxing things up when she pressed her thumb into that fleshy part of my palm. A habit we formed, years ago, which always means: Listen. Listen here. She says these boxes will probably move her back to Minneapolis. Next fall, maybe. Maybe sooner. There’s a dot on the map but not a route, yet, from here to there.

I can’t be surprised, really. Since she’s gone to the trouble of packing up her life into boxes it makes logical sense she’d unpack herself in Minneapolis. Past our high-school graduation Mo has only ever considered Lincoln her mail-stop in short spurts. A handful of unemployed summer months. Recovering from a winter break-up.

We’ve refined the habit of saying good-bye. One of us boarding a plane or packing up in a U-haul. I’m less likely, anymore, to be the moving object. I spend more time staying put. But this is still familiar territory.

Proximity doesn’t make a huge dent in the conversation between us. It only makes for a longer pause between each iteration.


_____________________________________________
Currently Reading: The Terror Dream by Susan Faludi
Goodness: With all the rain this Spring, my garden is flower-freaking-tastic!
Lesson Learned: Should McK offer to refine your palate for mixed-drinks, don't preface every concoction with question: "So, is this one fruity?". Eventually, he'll renig on his offer.

Fight or Flight

So I have this new assignment at work. A cool little project which lands me with something to say in a series of neighborhood discussions. So I'm excited and I think I could be good at this.

I hope to be good at this, anyway. Which makes me nervous. And being nervous or stressed some people have the fight or flight response. I've refined the puke or cry response. Either way, the prep work for these community conversations can get pretty messy.

Once I'm faced with the conversation or meeting I've worried over: I'm fine, actually. Completely fine. Which is great. A smidgen annoying since I was all worked up. But great. In hindsight I'll even swell with a little fondness for the occasion.

Until that rear-view mirror moment, however, my pockets are stuffed with Pepto Bismol tablets and Aloe Vera Kleenex.

__________________________
Personal Soundtrack: Not Ready to Make Nice (Dixie Chicks)
Reading with Naomi: Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech

G'night

With final exams finally done, I have resumed my long-standing love affair with sleep.

I realize there hasn’t been a true coronation, or anything, because I would hate for anyone to make a fuss…but… I secretly consider myself the queen of bedtime routines. I read about sleep. I read myself to sleep. More than once I’ve tried to finagle a life that I could manage entirely from my bedside. These efforts have reached varyingly high-degrees of success, actually. You’d be surprised.

Then there is the sleep maintenance part of the whole deal. Fluff the pillows. Flip the mattress, well, naturally. Change the sheets often.

Ah, now consider accessories. Let’s just say: I’m flush with sleep accessories. OK, ok, let’s say more than that. Sleepy music mix tapes. Pajamas for every season. Slippers and sock-slippers. Several varieties of over-night facial cream. Scented pillow spray. Oh, and if you ever need a sleeping mask, seriously, call me! I’m pretty sure I have a spare.

Last night I flopped down between the covers at what, to anyone else, would be an embarrassingly early hour. Scrunched up my toes with glee, and considered the coming months without coursework. Whew.
__________________________
Reading with Naomi: Heartbeat by Sharon Creech
Recent Goodness: Monique's proliferation of text messages to get me through finals.
Personal Soundtrack: Horses by Rickie Lee Jones
Dinner Line-Up: Spaghetti Squash with Pesto, Tomato & Mozzarella Salad
Recent Revelation: I'm not exactly a positive thinker.

The Women Who Bookend Me

Happy Mother's Day.

The Pill

I was twenty-something and at lunch with a group of clients. We were at some nice restaurant in Denver with clean windows, fancy water glasses and linen napkins. I was trying not to fidget at a circular table with middle managers.

The beginnings of my professional life were marked by a painfully awkward, knobby-kneed feeling that followed me everywhere I went. I remember this lunch, though, with particular clarity. Trying to be both impressive and casual.

It must have been 1999 because how every polite conversation was a “Best of…” commemorative. Best Short Stories of the Twentieth Century, for example, or Most Memorable Kisses on Screen, Most Influential Historic Moments …you get the idea. And our group spontaneously fell into a polite banter which asked what the "Most Groundbreaking Invention of the Twentieth Century" might have been.

I sat, smiled, and listened to compelling arguments for inventions such as: the polio vaccine, the microchip, the atomic bomb, the air conditioner, radio and television broadcasting. Somebody posed the question directly to me. My answer came out loud and clear without an iota of doubt or hesitation: The Pill.

And the beach-ball bounce feeling that accompanies any lively conversation sort of fell (ka-thunk) on the floor. Somebody coughed. It never even dawned on me that saying so might have been wildly inappropriate in a business setting.

My mention of The Pill could be taken more as a statement of my sexual prowess rather than how I intended it. What I meant was this: having the power to determine if, when, and how many children you have was a seismic shift. Women suddenly lived out their career goals and educational aspirations. Our lives looked fundamentally different. Our marriages functioned differently thereafter. Our consumption of resources, the cultural awareness of child psychology were irrevocably altered.

Somebody must have changed the subject after my Pill proclamation, or the food arrived to break the silence. I remember unwrapping my flatware from the napkin and thinking, clearly, I had won the Most Groundbreaking Invention of the Twentieth Century debate.

It's a moment that came to me as I read on CNN that this weekend, Sunday actually, marks the 50th Anniversary of the FDA approving use of birth control pills. I wished I could grab the sweaty hand of that twenty-something girl at the lunch table. Squeeze her fingers in mine and say, "I know exactly what you mean!"

May Day

"the earth laughs in flowers"
- e. e. cummings

Spilling Outward

I’m in the thick of final exams. The familiar sense of feeling both overwhelmed and annoyed. The swell of warmer weather outside and the nag of projects and exams and deadlines. I can’t recall the last time I’ve been so moody and erratic. Like my brain, my life, is torn up into little pieces and none of the edges fit together.

And I mad or frustrated nearly all of the time. Sleep deprivation doesn’t help.

I had this moment of clarity, though, last night and considered the family who has to manage me right now. All my somewhat internal weeping, whining, and profane muttering. Living next to all that must be a mine-field. I can only imagine. My imagination is pretty good, though… so… I sense I’m not far off on the on the particulars.

It was late at night when I saw it clearly. And resolved to let less of this moody preoccupation spill outside of my own skin. Luckily final exams inspire only a finite kind of craziness. For better of worse this comes to a close relatively soon. Luckier still, I married and raised some exceptionally forgiving people. Drawing deep from the reserves of that second stroke of my lucky life, we'll all make it.
_____________________________
Currently Watching: Mad Men (Season 3)
Currently Reading: When Everything Changed by Gail Collins
Quote of My Day: Mommy, I just like to chat. Especially when you're cooking.
Naomi Looking Forward To: Chinese Acrobat's Performance

Wheels-Up

Naomi took a spill on her bike last week. A big one. At the busy intersection she had shooed me down the bikepath’s underpass. She wanted to size up whether to ride or walk her bike down the steep descent.

McKibbin stood audience with her at the mouth of the beast and I sailed down and then up the steep slope on the other side of the street. For a long time I waited for them on the other side, then finally doubled back to find two empty bikes and an abandoned shoe sprawled across the pavement. Naomi was perched along the side of the trail crying. That awful, gravelly sounding cry that seizes up the insides of any parent within earshot.

An icepack, some ready Kleenex, and a large bandage later she was just fine. Neither McKibbin nor I ever dreamed she’d ride down that underpass. Well past her age and experience I would have taken one look at the steep incline, probably cried with fear, and walked it for sure. But she looked and it and thought “wheels up!”.

Come Monday she trotted off to school with a tale of remarkable chutzpah and a shiner that would make Rocky Balboa look like a school-yard wimp.

Last night was Naomi's first trip on two wheels since the spill. Level ground. No steep inclines. The familiar ride home from school she's done dozens of times. I watched her hesitate then mount the bike, wobble a little, and pedal off.

It’s one thing to ride a bike or learn to when you’ve never been hurt. The wind at your cheeks, the thrill of going fast. Re-approaching the task after a tumble, though, calls for a completely different form of bravery.

Kite Flying

See that speck in the center of my reel? That's the kite. At full extension. Sigh.

19th Amendment

"We shall someday be heeded, and–everybody will think it was always so, just exactly as many young people think that all the privileges, all the freedom, all the enjoyments which woman now possesses always were hers. They have no idea of how every single inch of ground that she stands upon today has been gained by the hard work of some little handful of women of the past."

~Susan B. Anthony

Backyard

In the past seven days the weather broke loose with a heat wave. All that melted snow turned into a bog and, most recently, a green-scape.

With four weeks left of my Spring semester classes, I took my textbook outside last night. Leafed through the pages, crunched numbers into my calculator, and nursed a beer on the back deck. Naomi played with the neighbor girls in the yard.

By any measure, it's been a grueling winter. Years ago I read some lines about how winter inspires you to remember the tune your bones play. Mark Strand, maybe? Anyway, it's an image that arrived with the snow and sat on my chest all winter long.

It's nice to feel things lift. The welcome chatter with my neighbors. I marked a moment feeling grateful last night for the pleasant feel of bare feet, the bright sun, and the color green.


______

Yes, I'm that geeky...but...it bothered me to spend a whole winter plagued by an image but not be able to place it in a fuller context. The tune your bones play comes from this poem by Mark Strand. Whew, I feel better now. Thanks.

...the upbreathing air

With the recent infusion of sun things lighten up, a little, at work. My Monday meeting was filled with more zings and ready laughter than I’ve heard in a while. Something is bubbling up and out from this wet ground.

I spent my morning coffee break taking a short walk outside. Squinted into the chilly wind I reveled in a single thought: winter is almost over.
_____
Dinner Line Up: Kedgeree & Spinach Salad
Currently Reading: The River of Doubt by Candice Millard
Reading with Naomi: The View from Saturday by E.L. Konigsburg
Personal Soundtrack: What I Got (Sublime)
Recent Goodness: Seeing my friend, Jennifer, take every available news outlet by storm to urge Lincoln to Vote YES on the Haymarket Arena project.

Birthday Cake

Naomi's birthday was last week. With McKibbin's switch to a new, but no less convenient, schedule the first round of chocolate cake baking fell to me. I suppose you could say we're long on cakes around the McKibbin house.

There's the cake we eat at Naomi's birthday party which is always a stunning display of my husband's culinary skills. There's also the small cake the three of us share after dinner on the night of her actual birthday.

To be honest: I'm not huge with desserts. After dinner I'd enjoy coffee with cream as much as a chocolate custard or raspberry cheesecake. Through marriage I was charmed and a little coaxed into eating more desserts, though. McKibbin's creations are quite convincing. So baking this chocolate cake came with some amount of pressure.

I used that recipe you find on the back of the Hershey's metal box. Complete with homemade frosting and dotted with Ghirardelli Chocolate chips on top.

Naomi asked for a small second helping. And I realized I didn't have to suddenly love cakes to bake a good one. I just have to love the person I'm baking the cake for.

Leprechaun Trap

Just before bedtime on March 16th Naomi insisted on constructing this leprechaun trap in her bedroom. Cut and taped the whole thing together in a flurry of inspiration. Tried to use a magic marker create "gold" coins as bait at the base of the trap. Then she giggled and plotted under the covers having a hard time falling asleep.

Sadly the trap stood empty on St. Patrick's Day morning. Naomi sighed with a heavy, defeated sigh saying. Genuinely disappointed she said, "I just wanted to prove that leprechauns were real."

Just By Looking

Naomi was wandering around our cold house without any socks or slippers. My foot empathy factor was just going berserk. I kept asking over, and over: don't you want some socks or something? She'd decline. I'd grow more insistent.

Finally, I flung some clean socks at her head without further instructions. She put them on and shot me a look.

Me: So that's the 'Mom, you've-gone-crazy-with-this-preoccupation-with-my-feet' look?
Naomi: No.
Me: No?
Naomi: That was the "I-could-see-perfectly-well-those-socks-were-headed-my-way-thirty minutes-ago. You-could-just-walk-them-over-to-me, you know. No-need-to-toss-them-at-my-face' look.
Me: That's a lot to say in a look.


Naomi: It is. But I'm pretty good at saying what I mean just by looking.

Introductions

As far back as my memory serves I’ve considered myself an environmentalist. My affinity for the natural world has influenced my coursework, several major life decisions, casual reading lists, weekend itineraries, and steered my career path. I’ve made no secret about it and nobody would be surprised to hear me say I’m an environmentalist.

Last week, however, I was asked to introduce myself and the word environmentalist lay dormant in my mouth. And I wondered if it's a shoe that still fits? I'll occasionally have these crises of conscience having decided to work in the electric utility industry rather than as an activist.

I considered whether environmentalism isn’t more of an ideology and whether I drink from its camp kool-aid. Certainly I ascribe to a creed of ecosystem protection, moderating more fervent consumption of the world’s resources, seeing a person’s rightful place in the world a rather small (hopefully) insignificant part of a much larger system.

Occasionally, though, I sink with the pulpy conversation surrounding environmental issues. The way political rhetoric and lofty ideals rarely sully themselves with the details. The inherent value of the goal can't simplify the mechanics of how to get from here to there.

My stumbling over the word environmentalist came as I sat in a group of environmental professionals. You know, the people tasked with carbon management, complying with clean water standards, or raw material and waste process balancing acts. Nobody quoted Edward Abbey or boasted about their habit of recycling both glass and plastic at home.

Instead this was a group that calculates the emission control factors. Defines drinking water pollutants by congener. We agonize over the complicated benchmarks and metrics. The variables we occasionally can neither explain nor more fully understand.

The table conversation might have lent well to cynicism, actually, or making sport of belittling other perspectives. And, yet, it never did.

It was there that I realized I could still consider myself an environmentalist. In realizing I hadn't grown tired nor cynical in the face of unsimple, often frustrating, environmental issues. In another setting I'd use the term to describe myself. Environmentalist. In this one, it was a given.

Soup Club

Several years ago I formed a soup club habit. I had always winced at the thought of winter. The post holiday season feeling of isolation that draws out well into March. So instead of wincing I started to invite a clutch of friends over to swap soups.

Our soup club met again yesterday and I arrived, giggling, with the sense this was some red-carpet equivalent. My imagination flooded the scene with a zillion blinks from flashbulbs, and the shallow sort of E-Channel soft questioning.

I shook off the image until the group responded to the sound of the door with a loud bellowing cheer. Unwrapping from my coat and scarf someone asked after the type of soup I sported that day. The question, in my mind, comparable to “Who are you wearing?” I batted my eyelashes, struck a pose, and found a sultry voice to announce my companion as pumpkin soup with rosemary and lime zest.

The group swooned openly and I blushed under the gaze of open flattery. The warm air of the apartment was stinging against my cheeks. There is no cold winter, no pervasive sense of loneliness these occasions couldn't help remedy.

March Forecast

This morning was the official flip. I flipped the calendar page to the month of March.

Woah.

Three birthdays, several major project deadlines, the Storybook Parade at Prescott, midterms, three out-of-town trips, the Science Fair exhibit Naomi wants to pull together on orangutans, and a change in McK’s work schedule.

Clairvoyance isn't a skill I possess. Though I would wager the coming month will involve late nights, hotel-sized shampoo bottles, and lots, and lots of cake. Any monthly forecast that involves an ample supply of birthday cake just can't be all that bad.

Bowling Alone

McKibbin and I have a long history of reading together in coffee shops. It's a habit we must have started with our college textbooks. Sitting quietly for hours. Talking in spurts of conversation about our books.

My memory of reading Robert Putnam’s text Bowling Alone is framed by coffee shops and the company of my future husband. Putnam's text documents the demise of civic engagement, the eroded relationships people form with neighbors and communities. It’s a book McKibbin can, rightfully, claim to have read because I'd smack him in the arm rather constantly and say, "...listen to this..."

And it's one of those rare books that shifted around the contents of my life. It called out a sense of isolation I had never put a name to. A loneliness I later thought of as my four-walls syndrome. Before this book, caring extended only as far as the four walls of my apartment or house. Sure, I belonged to letter-head organizations and partook in the occasional letter writing campaign. Rarely, though, did any of those letterheads ask me to show up to a meeting let alone talk to anybody.

So Bowling Alone shifted my center of gravity. Last night isn't my only example, though it's a good one. I've had the pleasure of working with a group of 8-10 neighbors in hopes of expanding the greenspace at Naomi’s school.

Last night we capitalized on the steady stream of foot traffic through the school building for Parent-Teacher conferences to showcase our conceptual design plans. I could talk (or blog) your ear off about the merits of the greenspace project...and at some point I'm sure I will...but my Bowling Alone point is that I felt tied to something. And feeling tied to something keeps me from feeling alone or growing cynical.

I considered the people I've worked with. The Summer Family Festival we organized, the Playground Movie Series that rolled out last fall. Even our Saturday breakfast meetings with orange juice and coffee and kids playing upstairs. The random occasion where we'll bump into each other at the grocery store or post office. The easy joking around we'll do while waiting in line. When I lived by the four-walls philosophy those sorts of things either didn't happen or the conversations didn't include me.

There's no global conclusion I've got for this blog post. Just a good moment I wanted to mark from my walk home last night. The cold night air stinging against my goofy smile. A smile that ate up my whole face.

Weekend Highlights

Last weekend I had the lovely occasion to travel to Chicago. And I made a short-list of my favorite features from the trip.

1. Hands-down the most comfortable hotel bed I’ve ever slept in. I tried to dream up some way of taking it with me as a carry-on.
2. Indulging in a 2 ½ day-long coffee date equivalent with Ms. C.
3. The Evolving Planet exhibit at the Field Museum.
4. A delightful pizza and beverage excursion with T and his entourage. My smiling muscles ached for hours afterward.
5. Listening to a series of free audio-tours of Chicago’s history and architecture that McKibbin downloaded onto my MP3 player.
6. Wading knee-deep into the text of The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver.
7. Upon realizing I would be home in time to tuck her into bed on Sunday night my daughter said, “I’m so excited I could cry!”

The Better Story

Naomi is on a Rising Stars team which meets twice a week after-school. Rising Stars is a program that tasks kids with creative problem-solving. Last night after team practice Naomi and I cruised over to the grocery store and had the following conversation.

Me: So how was Rising Stars today?
Naomi: GREAT!!!
Me: Yeh? What are you guys up to?
Naomi: We’re doing a news-show with commercials and everything. I really want to do a throw back in time so I can be Shirley Temple.
Me: For a commercial?
Naomi: No, in the news-show. You know, a story about who Shirley Temple was and how she died.
Me: Hon, I think Shirley Temple is still alive.
Naomi: So?
Me: Well, news stories are generally non-fiction.
Naomi: I have to think up someone who’s already dead?
Me: You could always do a "Where Is She Now" story about Shirley Temple. But, if you want to talk about somebody’s death: yes that person should be dead.
Naomi: Like Elvis.
Me: Yes, Elvis is dead.
Naomi: Then maybe we could do a story about how the aliens came down from their spaceship and killed Elvis.
Me: -------
Naomi: Yep, that could work.
Me: Is that how Elvis died?
Naomi: No, mom, he died from drugs just like Michael Jackson. Lied to his doctor, got the drugs, and died from them. I just thought the space alien angle was, you know, more interesting.

Talent Show

After weeks of early morning rehearsals Naomi took center-stage at Prescott Elementary School's Talent Show last Friday. Ms. Sundiah, a teacher from the Before-and-After school program, had spent weeks teaching and rehearsing with Naomi a traditional East Indian dance.

Friday night was the big show and it was one of those moments I felt a little awe-struck. Naomi was both poised and focused. She was gracious in accepting a top prize from the judges and the compliments from her peers. As the auditorium emptied she sought out other Talent Show performers to tell them "good job" or "that was sooooo funny!"

I was pleased just to sit back to watch Naomi and, when it came time to go, hold her coat.

My Funny Valentine

Nine years ago McKibbin and I were waiting on the coffee to brew. Standing there in robes and slippers I told my (then) boyfriend that Valentine’s Day isn’t really my deal. I’m not much for cards, I elaborated, candies and the whole pre-packaged sense of “romance” which is always heavy on the consumer goods....ehn...it's not really for me.

I was surprised to find my boyfriend was not at all relieved. I drank some coffee before verifying, nope, he wasn’t breathing any easier after my anti-Valentine's Day proclaimation. Turns out he rather enjoys Valentine’s Day. Not the pre-packaged variety…but making the occasion to be with someone he loved was right up his alley. Who knew? Ah-hem...not me.

It’s a kitchen conversation that has plagued us for nine, seriously, nine years. Every year we botch the whole Valentine's Day deal. One of us resolving to buy a card or make dinner reservations as a special surprise for the other. One of us showing up late and empty handed.

The roles switch but the story stays the same. Throw Naomi into that mix and the debacle multiplies exponentially. Babysitters get involved, or it's our kid who becomes the unrequited card-giver.

At this point McK and I giggle at the mere mention of Valentine’s Day. For two rather capable people who, obviously, adore each other we manage to fumble this occasion every time. I’ve grown fond of our lack of coordination. What my twenty-something slippered self couldn’t see was that I could just save my pre-coffee-breath. McK and I couldn’t pull off a pre-packaged anything. Thankfully, that was just never in the cards.
______________
Quote of My Day: Valentine's Day (the movie) is like a 75-year-old director licking you in the face. (Vanessa Farquharson)
Personal Soundtrack: Polaroids (Shawn Colvin)
Currently Reading: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson
Lunch Concoction: White Beans, Rice, Fresh Tomatoes & Garlic-Tahihni-Parsley sauce