Speaking of restaurants...

Wait? Were we speaking of restaurants? We weren't, but I'm hungry and would very much like for someone to bring me a menu. Just saying.

Anyhoo, B was out to lunch the other day with her friend and her friend's family. The hostess/neighbor mom mentioned that she wanted a taste of the salad being enjoyed by the man at the nearby table. Which I understand completely. The plates get piled down on other tables and all I want to do is tuck in right next to them and check out the yumminess. I sort of wish that all restaurants were dim sum style or of the tapas variety: that way I could see and try and taste and devour little bits of everything.

So, B, who is always ever helpful, flipped over her paper placemat and created the following, a sign of sorts that the host/neighbor dad could use to get the attention of the man at the nearby table:



I'm not sure why the "please" is crossed out -- frankly, I would have kept that -- but I am keeping the drawing in my bag nonetheless, just in case I see a salad that looks particularly tasty.

Pssst, Are You Sleeping?

That's what the voice (voices?) whisper to me some nights.

Hey lady, are you sleeping? it sneers.
I'm trying too, I say.
Why bother? it laughs. I am relentless.

Then the barrage comes in a totally random order, starting innocently, harmlessly -- wait? what time is the doctor's appointment? -- and ramping upwards -- birthday presents, weeds, cousins, eating habits of nine year olds, bumper stickers, agendas, practice schedules, phone calls, yoga, ants. Unflinchingly, it drones on, while the whole house sleeps.

I consider plodding downstairs. Think about making a list. Unloading the dishwasher. Picking a paint color once and for all. But its dark and quiet and what if when I flip a switch, so I don't die tripping over some misplaced fire truck or fort material, the light just shakes me out of sleep completely. And what if there's a bulb missing and where are the extra bulbs/I know I bought some/were they the green kind?/the twisty ones/or old school and is global warming really real and I should read something unbiased about that/I should read more/like a book/ohmygod!/book group.

So I roll over, flip the pillow. Wonder what everyone is dreaming about. Hear someone sigh down the hall.

Then: name tags. God, I hate name tags. They look so lame, so lamely official, and I never know where to put them: above the boob, on the boob, between the boobs? And what if I forget to take it off and run around for hours all HELLO! I'M a Loser? Because I've done that and it sucked. But still, I should get some for that thing on Thursday at the school with cookies (!!) and sign up sheets. I like cookies. And if I have a name tag, maybe someone will sign up for something. Which would be good. Maybe instead of platters of cookies, we should have platters of money. People like money. Why do I never have any in my wallet yet my daughters collect cash like... like cash collectors?

Consider getting into the lemonade stand business. Consider lemonade in general. It's good with iced tea, but otherwise, not so much. AM I STILL AWAKE? What time is it? And I'm tired. Roll over. Take deep breath. Sigh.

And Mad Men? Why can't that show be on teevee 24 hours a day? Because Don Draper is sort of hot and the whole thing is so subtle and genius and did it mean something more when they dumped all their picnic trash on the lawn at the park? Mean something more than bad manners and litterbug-ishness? Like maybe a symbol of their impending arrogance, their ascendence to another, wealthier class? I mean, she shook out the blanket and just flung the debris all over the place! Did people do that in the 60s? I don't think my mom did that. We cleaned up washed-up garbage along the beach in the 70s, after all. Remember that sand cake I once made her? The one I decorated with discarded plastic playtex tubes as candles? Gross. I should ask her about that.

Snoring is really kind of funny, if you think about, if you listen to it long enough.
Yawn. Roll over. Pull up covers... And finally, finally, FINALLY: sleep.

This day will be fueled by buckets of caffeine. And nametags: HELLO I'M sleepy.

I Take It All Back

Because this? This is beyond sad and seriously profound.

So, internet? We're friends again. And I'm sorry.

Dear Stupid Website

Thank you for erasing EVERYTHING.

Thank you for sucking.

Thank you for making me think that my ten minutes tonight when I wrote about my mother's mother...

the one who loved storms
the one who tied me up to a wicker couch during a storm that would kick this storms ass --

thanks for making me think that was not worth worth saving.

Because you didn't save it and you suck.

Since you didn't save it, didn't save ONE WORD THAT I WROTE which was probably soooooo genius and funny and smart? And since now it's way past midnight and my lame attempts to find those words are wasted? Fucking wasted? And since now I seem all bitter? Again?


I got this for you, Stupid Website, stupid internet who just screwed with me once again: you are tasty and yummy but I am supposed to be the one in charge. And you just made me tantrum again.

Got tantrums? TELL.

Packed Up, Nowhere to Go

The GFYO was supposed to start pre-school today. The GFYO is spiking a fever and wheezing like an old man huffing Marlboro Reds. I figured we would just let the Big First Day pass by so I neglected to mention it. I figure we'll head to the doctor's for some meds and do more of the hanging out that we are famous for.

Instead, his ever-nosy sisters started in on us both bright and early.

THEY: You are sick. You are sicky sick. You don't feel goody do you?

HE: (thinking) Why are they talking to me like that? Weirdos.

THEY: You are all saddy sad. Poor GFYO. You --

And this is where I start waving my arms in the background, a foolish umpire trying to get my message across: DO NOT MENTION THE SCHOOL WORD --

THEY: -- will miss your --

More waving, and also some hopping on one foot. DO NOT SAY IT!

THEY: BIG FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!

HE: (looking at me, knowing I am a big fat liar) B-b-but? There's school today? I wannnaaaa go to school! (Cough. Wheeze. Swoon.) I waaaannnnna go!

The girls snag their back packs, turn tail on us both and skip out the door. Ta-ta, they taunt, Off we go to the Awesome Land of School! Have fun, sicko!

Crying, wailing in fact, ensues. Followed by sobbing and that lower-lip quiver which is a major killer. Especially when it appears under blood-shot, feverish eyes. Poor GFYO. He had his backpack packed and everything. He knew where his cubby was. He wanted to get his hands in that sandbox, wanted a little of that circle time love, wanted to get the hell away from me for a couple hours.

After the doctor, I will buy him a muffin AND a popsicle. I will sit with him on the couch and read that book. And when the girls come home from school? I will rifle through their bags hoping that they have mountains of dreaded homework. MOUNTAINS OF IT.

Raising Palin

Raising daughters is a mega bitch -- and I mean that completely pun-free. Raising daughters who you hope become self-assured, wikkid smaht, and self-possessed Women (with a capital W, not like a GW "w") is seriously hard work, especially for a grrl like me who tends to over think her feminista-ness a tad too much. Who tends to get caught up in labels like (oh shut up) SAHM and (good God) Soccer Mom. It's hard for anyone to raise a girl, even Republicans apparently, and right now, it's not so much fun for my sister (mother of a 15 year old) or for Laggin and her heart-broken girl.

One of the first things I thought when they said "it's a girl!" was what the? because oh my god, the pressure. I mean, this tiny baby was gonna look to me for all kinds of knowledge: mascara and tampons, boyfriends and bitches, sports bras and sweat management. I could manage a few of those things, but not all, not hardly, and also, OH MY MOTHER FUCKING GOD did he just say, it's a girl?

That daughter made purses out of gym socks so she's never needed me to learn the feminine ways. (Silver linings.) (Lucky girl.) But she does need me to show her leadership and girl balls and how to not hide in the corner and how you gotta try things over and over because it doesn't matter if you're not the best the first go 'round. I am good at modeling this only about 25 percent of the time. Maybe 40 percent on a good day. Fifteen percent on bad one. Which is not to say that I am not a natural leader, because listen, since first grade they were calling me bossy, but the other crap? See what I mean about the pressure?

When they told me for a second time "it's a girl," I wasn't shocked. I figured that's what we do.

That daughter made gym socks out of purses. She fashioned belts into holsters to hold sticks swords when she was three. She hopped on a bike at four and rode it when no one was looking, because her sister was on a bike and also because WTF? it's bike, I can ride it! She needs me to show her how great it can be to be a girl and how it's not such a bad thing to use a brush and that making friends sometimes means stopping running long enough to talk to them. SEE? Fucking pressure.

I thought when they were born (less than two years apart) that they would look the same. They didn't. (All three of my kids have different colored eyes, which is pretty much karma telling me to sit down and pay attention.) I thought that they would become similar kids. They're not.

While one runs herself ragged on the soccer turf two days a week, the other trips UP the bleachers and smashes her knee. While one lays out her clothes and organizes her files, the other has gum in her hair for days without telling.

While one teaches me to listen more and realize that cool, smart girls can dance and chat and do cartwheels, the other one teaches me to let go more and realize that a strong boot and fancy foot work is not all that makes a girl. Sometimes I think my yin and yang of daughters are brought to me FOR A REASON. A reason I had nothing to do with. Which is the reason.

Because you know what? We aren't in control of the babies we birth for much longer than nine (or ten) months. After that: they are who they are and we get to scramble (for the rest of our lives?) to figure that out and make adjustments and plans that help them get all the way to where they're meant to be.

And lest you think I might let this Palin dog lie?

Shit's gonna happen. So a little more than abstinence teaching might help along the way for my girls, for all girls, and a little more than the world emerged from the finger tip of a God might help to make scientists of my kids, and a little choice in how a girl could deal with the unexpected realities of life (like say? um? ADOPTION? why not ADOPTION? that other "A" word? perhaps that's a choice a 17 year old Alaskan girl could consider) because, seriously, this raising girl stuff?

We should arm our girls with everything we know, everything everyone else knows, because hoping for the best? Expecting outcomes like you think you owned the word outcomes?

Never worked. Never will.

Lost and Found

Things I have lost:

School health forms
Recorder for 4th Grade music class
Insurance Cards
Cell phone charger
Paint chips

Things I have found:

Alarm clock
Lunch bags
Bottom of my desk
Another school supply list I didn't know I had
Compassion for 17 year old pregnant Alaskan girl

I managed to get us all out the door without yelling once. I am pretty sure everyone has underwear on -- a first day of school must! (I haven't checked the GFYO but since he's hanging with me all day, I figure one more day ala commando is AOK.) Soccer cleats and clothes are packed and ready for practice this afternoon, but I'm still not exactly sure where that practice is happening. I updated the calendar with the barrage of upcoming meetings and dreaded open houses because looking organized is almost more important than being organized. Am I right?

Fly zipped? Check. Stain-free shirt? Check. Call to doctor's office to order replacement school health forms? Check. Flipped the bird at the Bad Man on the Radio as if he could see me? Check. Bribed GFYO to get in the car with me for "fun" errands? Check.

I do believe things are back to normal around here.

Going Going...

I had a very extensive post that included pictures of things I didn't write about this summer and pictures of things I did write about though in more detail, BUT...

I've now lost all of it twice.

TWICE!

Maybe I've been edited by karma because here's what lasted:

This is the girl who has cancer who I didn't write much about:


And who relapsed right before the summer started and who had a bone marrow transplant right before summer ended. She is the blondest, bravest bald girl I've ever known. She is my cousin. She was the flower girl in my wedding. She is one of my best friends. I got to write about her (elsewhere) and house her parents when they needed it this summer. My daughter will be HER flower girl some day.

This is the ball I showed once. With the girl I kinda showed who caught the ball


on the day neither she nor me nor the Kid will ever forget.

I didn't write about the ridiculously real Tarot card reading I had but I bought this bracelet right after:



It says: "create your own destiny." I've worn it every day say since.

When I talked about our road trips, this is what I meant:



And this is how I felt feel about anonymous ? dudes



who hurt my precious feelings.

And this is what summer looks like





when it's going



and going






and gone.