Whooping it up

I spent the night before flying listening to the family tell never ending stories about horrible violent crime - including rapes, car jackings and murders. I was starting to think I had lost my mind even thinking I could do this.

I worked a second job to pay for this trip to South Africa in 1999. I read Nelson Mandela's autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, during my breaks and while riding the subway. I wanted to visit this new democracy while a living legend was still her president.

My first few days were spent in Johannesburg with a woman I met in a Paris youth hostel 9 years earlier. We had exchanged letters over the years but in early 1998 she had access to reliable email. We decided I would come visit for three weeks in January. I would start in Johannesburg, fly to Cape Town for a solo trip, return to take a tour of Kruger National Park, then finish in Jo'burg.

The night before my solo travels we were in her parents' backyard with extended family, eating barbecue, and they are telling never ending stories about crime. Crime rates, statistics, personal stories, stories they had heard, on and on and on.

I have no room lined up in Cape Town and don't know anyone there. I've done this before, traveled alone into a city and found a room after getting oriented but for some reason this felt crazy. Like I was intentionally setting myself up to be hurt by a crazed criminal, or criminals.

I had already bought the round trip ticket on South Africa Air. The next morning, my friend drove me to the airport and wished me "Bon Voyage". I still remember the feeling of terror trying to wind its way up from my stomach to my throat. It would occasionally get as far as the back of my mouth, and I would tear up as I tried not to scream or cry.

But then I saw magic out of my plane window. I saw textures I didn't know land could make. Mountains with crevices and trees. Later it was a flat that went on forever. As the plane flew into the setting sun there were long shadows that seem to go on for miles.

I arrived in Cape Town and eventually found a room in a quiet inn with a view of Table Mountain. One night a German family staying at the inn insisted on taking me with them to watch the sun set from windy Signal Hill. I visited the island where Mandela and other political prisoners were held during the long struggle to end apartheid. I walked up to Table Mountain by myself. I visited wineries, ran on the beach with African penguins and saw the point where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet.

The last night I decided to treat myself to a fancy meal in a small Italian restaurant I had noticed during my hike up to Table Mountain. Walking in alone it became clear the waiters didn't know how to treat me. I was sat at a table and they hovered. Every time I put down my water glass it was filled again to the top. I decided to be extravagant and order a salad, main course and desert along with a glass of wine. All this food meant I would be at the table for a long time.

During the meal I watched the staff and the street outside the window. I enjoyed the food and the wine. When the check came, the total came to 56 Rand, or around $8 US. At that price I felt like I was stealing their food and since they had been so attentive, I left a $10 tip.

As I walked out the waitstaff could be heard whooping as they cleared my table. It was either a whoop from my generosity or utter stupidity. I didn't care. I was whooping too.

***

This is my submission to Scribbit's monthly Write-Away contest. This month's topic was "My Most Adventurous Moment." Check her out on Friday, July 20th for a list of all the submissions.

The Princess and the Pond

My high school was written up in a recent biography of the Crown Princess of Japan Masako Owada. She attended the high school before I got there. I have no idea if she was interviewed or even consented to this biography.

A friend, and fellow BHS grad, received photographed pages of the book taken in a Tokyo bookstore. He in turn sent them along to me. The following dissection of the translated passages are in no way meant to offend anyone (so calm down all you readers in Japan).

I indent the passages from a translated version. The author writes:

Even though she had attended primary school of three years in New York, nothing better illustrates the culture shock the young Masako would have to cope with than her new school. The contrast between the strict, prudish nuns of Futaba and freewheeling Belmont High School in semi-rural Massachusetts could not be starker.

Freewheeling? Semi-rural? I read that and think cows (well, cows on drugs). Or Vermont. We were less than 4 miles from the state capital, had public transit and no farms. I comment on drugs below.

Set beside a large lake in grounds full of silver-birch trees,

The "large lake" is called Claypit Pond and would never be mistaken for a lake. And full of birch trees? This is a photo from around the time the eventual Princess attended BHS. I did drive by last night and there are a lot more trees around today. So many you really can't see the school from the street. While an accurate description today, not so 20+ years ago.

Belmont's emblem is not a symbolic green sprig, but a pirate with a dagger clenched between his teeth wearing a tricorn hat emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.

I never thought of our Marauder that way but yes, we were fancy pirates. Argghhh.

The school has grassy sports grounds, where Masako would continue to play softball, an ice-skating rink, and a huge parking lot for the staff and teenage students, many of whom drive themselves to school.

It is true we had very, very nice sports facilities including a pool. The parking lot, however wasn't THAT big and in my day some kids did drive themselves to school (I was not one of them). What? Everyone walked to your school?

Instead of religious icons, the walls are covered with great splashy pictures of comic-book characters.

Really? Where? I would've LOVED to gaze at Wonder Woman during biology.

It is co-educational, and as for tucking one's socks over three times to just 15 centimetres above the ankle, the uniform is gangsta (their spelling) rapper chic - forage caps on backwards, baggy pants, football jumpers and sneakers. And make-up - banned on pain of expulsion at Futaba - is de rigeur (their emphasis).

Had "gansta rap chic" even hit the suburbs in the early 1980's? And what are football jumpers? I was too busy wearing over sized Frankie Says Relax t-shirts to notice.

Ethnic homogeneity is replaced with diversity - one in five of the students at Belmont is Hispanic or African-American.

This part is probably the most horrific because it is just patently not true. While I was at BHS I literally cannot recall any Latinos and all the African-American students were bused in - I kid you not - through a program to get "inner city" (read Black) students into suburban schools. There were maybe 5-10 Black students per class of 250-300. That's more like one in twenty. And at times a pretty lonely one too.

The notice board, rather than having notes about upcoming softball fixtures and music clubs, has the phone number of the Samaritans' suicide helpline, and newspaper cuttings with cautionary headlines such as '20 Shots of Scotch Prove Fatal to Student' and 'Six-Pack Cost Him $4722'.

The only place I can think of that had these posted was the health ed classroom and I was able to get out of that requirement because it met during band. Plus, what health problems could band kids get into anyway?

Julie Yeh, a Taiwanese student who befriended Masako, says that, compared with their new American classmates, they were both initially rather socially naive. Masako was shocked at the drug use and dating.

Yes, there were drugs at BHS. I can't comment if it was more or less than other schools since I didn't A) attend any other high school or B) use any illicit drugs. Yes my dear friends, I have never smoked, snorted, nor injected. I've never smoked a cigarette.However, did you notice that in the above sentence from the book they put dating and drug use together? As if they go hand-in-hand? Yes, I dated in high school but wasn't getting stoned or drunk with them.

When they went to the school prom, Masako blushed at the couples kissing in the dark, and since they didn't know how to dance, the two girls spent the night watching movies in the school auditorium.

Now I know for a fact that the author(s) have no clue what they are writing about. Every BHS Prom is held at one of the swanky downtown hotel ballrooms. And the room is always well-lit so kids can enjoy the ridiculous opulence around them.

There you have it. Of course, I'd love to know what the huge busloads of Japanese tourists who drove through our town in the late 1980's and early 1990's thought of it all.

***

I've got to say that letting people pick if they want to participate in a meme takes the stress off of receiving them. Jodifur listed a wonderful set of 9 (hey, more is better). My favorite of her list - she wants to own a winery. Darling you have an investor, as long as I get a case every year.

Not even PG-13?

(Brought to you by Mingle²)

I was determined a PG Rating (oh, how, safe) because of the following words:

I wrote "Fag" three times and wrote "Shoot" twice.

Now I am impressed that violent words are counted, but come on.

I have written FAG more than three times!

***

And guess what? The Real Life Drama Queen posted her own list of eight things about herself. I think the list is both hysterical (300 DVDs) and touching. Fodder for more posts darling!

Went to a hockey game

Insert all the bad jokes here. They were true.

My cousin's son is a hard core hockey player in his home state south of the Mason Dixon line. His parents decided to send him to a camp up here, in a state where hockey is wicked intense.

Over the weekend I brought the boys to the rink 7 miles from our house for the 9:40pm game, the team's second in a tournament that followed the camp. They played against a team from Montreal. Within five minutes of the game, a Canadian player repeatedly hit and kicked a player from the home team. The beaten player ended up with a broken ankle. The aggressor was never penalized, I guess because the referees didn't see it

That led to a game with 16 year old boys constantly tripping, hitting, slamming, and other aggressive acts. I'm familiar enough with hockey to know that is part of the tactic. However, even seasoned hockey parents told me this was going too far.

It did go too far. The game was called because the players were fighting too much. We literally went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.

But this was great. A blessing really. One of my guys has been nagging me constantly to let him take up hockey. This is a kid, who along with his brother, plays (deep breath) soccer, basketball, t-ball, and tennis along with starting on a swim team this week. Aside from the ridiculous number of sports he plays there is no way in hell I will

1. pay the outrageous costs for hockey equipment (I learned one of those sticks alone can cost up to $150)


2. deal with 4:30am practice times or tournament games ending at 11:30 at night


3. encourage my children to participate in a sport that expressly endorses fighting

So there we were in the dark parking lot past midnight and I told him never to bring up playing hockey again. Because if he does, I'll ask him which part of that evening he enjoyed.

Cleaning house

Tags. They really are tough for me. I have these plans for what the week's worth of posts will look like and - bam - someone publicly hands me a task. One poor person gave me one months ago that I just couldn't fulfill (I mean I take ALL of my goals seriously!). Sorry.

There are three in the cue. Here's the first one.

The Rules:

Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.

• Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.


• Players should tag eight other people and notify them that they have been tagged.

Eight random things about me:

1. I read Gone with the Wind between 5th and 6th grade. When I wrote that what-I-read-over- summer-vacation 2 page essay (they didn't assign books back then), my teacher didn't believe me.

2. I was one of the two murderous, spinster maids in Arsenic and Old Lace in my senior class play.

3. I was in a movie with Daniel Day Lewis.

4. Growing up I was teased for not having a "girl" middle name - my middle name is Mitchell.

5. I miss reading books. There are not enough hours in the day to be a mom, work and blog.

6. I was set up on a blind date by someone I met on an airplane. The man I met on that blind date? Mr. SMID.

7. When I entered college my parents told me not to "darken the door of the theater department". I joined the crew team.

8. I believe that the government can play a role in making people's lives better and that the conservatives have done a grave disservice spreading a small government message. Do you like having clean water to drink, cook with and bath your sweet precious children in? Do you appreciate roads that are paved? Do your parents or grandparents like the universal health care (aside from the Republicans creating prescription "coverage") that the government provides? Thank big government.


So now I am suppose to pass this along. Guess what? If you are reading this and think "hmmm I would just love to do this" then considered yourself tagged. Just be sure to let me know you did it and I'll highlight you at the end of upcoming posts.

Faux

Or, if you prefer, fake crystals on my daughter's new chandelier over her new, big girl bed.

This is part of the Weekly Photo hunters. Click to find other hunters.

Explaining sad

And to salute our troops, the musicians unveiled Samuel Barber’s “Adagio For Strings,” a somber piece that was used in the film “Platoon.”

-- Boston Herald review of last night's Boston Pops
concert

The boys were struggling to stay awake to listen to Tchaikovsky's 1812th Overture and see the fireworks that followed the Pops July 4th concert. Little lady gave up a while ago and asked to be put to bed (did I ever tell you how reasonable this 3-year-old can be? Asking to go to bed - how did I luck out?).

Conductor Keith Lockhart introduced the next piece while wearing a bright yellow EMT rain coat. He said it was a tribute to all military past and present. As it started I gasped and said it was such a sad piece to play. The son sprawled on my lap asked why it was sad.

"Listen to the music - how the notes make you feel."

"Just tell me" he moaned.

"No honey, you cannot explain music. You feel it. Can't you hear the way the notes flow? It sounds like sadness."

He was silent and asleep before Adagio for Strings was finished.

Then I realized that was one of my more boneheaded attempts to explain something to one of my kids. Why would I expect a nearly 7-year-old kid to know that kind of sad? That heart-breaking, make you cry from the depths of your soul kind of sad? If he did know it, he had already lived a hard life.

But he didn't. And I am glad.

"My job is to enforce the law"

'Please,' Bush whimpers, his lips pursed in mock desperation, 'don't kill me.'

From: "Devil May Care" by Tucker Carlson, Talk Magazine, September 1999, p. 106

"Bush's brand of forthright tough-guy populism can be appealing, and it has played well in Texas. Yet occasionally there are flashes of meanness visible beneath it.

While driving back from the speech later that day, Bush mentions Karla Faye Tucker, a double murderer who was executed in Texas last year. In the weeks before the execution, Bush says, Bianca Jagger and a number of other protesters came to Austin to demand clemency for Tucker. 'Did you meet with any of them?' I ask.

Bush whips around and stares at me. 'No, I didn't meet with any of them,' he snaps, as though I've just asked the dumbest, most offensive question ever posed. 'I didn't meet with Larry King either when he came down for it. I watched his interview with [Tucker], though. He asked her real difficult questions, like 'What would you say to Governor Bush?' 'What was her answer?' I wonder.

'Please,' Bush whimpers, his lips pursed in mock desperation, 'don't kill me.'

I must look shocked -- ridiculing the pleas of a condemned prisoner who has since been executed seems odd and cruel, even for someone as militantly anticrime as Bush -- because he immediately stops smirking.

'It's tough stuff,' Bush says, suddenly somber, 'but my job is to enforce the law.' As it turns out, the Larry King-Karla Faye Tucker exchange Bush recounted never took place, at least not on television. During her interview with King, however, Tucker did imply that Bush was succumbing to election-year pressure from pro-death penalty voters. Apparently Bush never forgot it. He has a long memory for slights."
[Carlson, Talk, 9/99]

[Ed. Note: During the Larry King-Faye Tucker exchange, Tucker never asked to be spared.]

Such a compassionate conservative. When you are white, male and in the club.

And was the above the conduct of a Christian?

Humph.

Tongans, fire and sugar

What did you do this weekend? We had a pig roast in our backyard. With Tongans. That last point will make sense shortly.

It all started at 5:30 in the morning on Saturday. My daughter - aka the rooster - awoke and we snuggled in my bed. As we got comfortable we heard the first of the Tongans arriving at our house, helping my husband with clearing out the backyard and preparing the pit for the second annual rugby club pig roast. The first one was held in our backyard last year.

Next came the pig, a 130+ pound recently slaughtered pig. Craig (known around these parts as Mr. SMID) came up with the idea of using a new mop to help marinate the pig while on the spit. We were told that "back home in Tonga" they would marinate the pig overnight in a tub. Since we only have one bathroom in our 130+ year old farm house, I'm glad I wasn't even asked to offer up our claw footed tub for the effort. I would have said no.

I was enjoying the fact that my little men were hanging with these guys with stories of growing up in the South Pacific. I envisioned my sons recounting how they heard of playing on beaches, running for hours, and never ending sun.

I should've grown suspect when I was asked for the largest bag of sugar we had and two spoons.

Did you know that if you throw some sugar on smoldering charcoal, it will shoot up flames? I didn't either.

I have several (at the time) drunk Tongans to thank for teaching my almost 7-year-old sons this new found knowledge. The first time I saw this skill set one of my sons stood over the pit and had, oh, MILLIMETERS between his lovely head and the flame. With much restraint I calmly said, "Love, could you stand back while you shoot flames into the sky?" Really, I was that calm.

But then I could've hugged the guy who showed my sons the scar on his hand and told of how he was playing with fire when he was 9 years old. He seriously burned his hand. When he ran home crying to his father, the man flicked his son's ear twice, told him not to play with fire, and ordered him to walk to the hospital 1 1/2 miles away. Which he did. My boys were just wide-eyed recounting the story

We brought out the television to watch a recorded match between New Zealand and Australia during the Tri-Nations Games. Folks, if you have never seen a Haka Dance, complete with running commentary from actual rugby players, then you haven't had a good time. Especially if there are jokes about slitting the opposing team's throats and eating their kidneys.

Then came the fire dance, by a drunk Tongan (and before anyone thinks it was only the Tongans drinking, there were Irish, Americans, Australians and some other nationalities running amok with the beer). The performing Tongan though was in a sarong type get-up. He swiped the blue fabric from a local bar owner (much to hard to explain here). For those of you concerned about children's welfare, we kept all children on the deck far away from the fire stick


Aside from some grass catching on fire, it was amazing. Then afterwards my sons made charcoal mud and ripped the teeth out of the remnants of pig.

A fun time had by all.

** yes, I do have plenty of photos of the pig, roasting, kids "mopping" it, etc. However, after 10 attempts to download just one of them, I've decided that Blogger is managed by vegetarians.**

In My Child's Eyes

Belief, nothing more, nothing less.

For the rest of my days I want to look into those eyes, one set a deep indigo, the other an icy blue, and see belief.

I want them to believe in love, so I work at it everyday with their dad.

I want them to believe in holding hands, so I offer mine and take theirs.

I want them to believe in doing what you love, so I pursue my dreams.

I want them to believe in themselves, so we celebrate their wins and their better-luck-next-times.

I want them to believe that I did my best, so I do.

Not yet a soccer mom, but guilty of the odd bit of denial, Amanda usually writes about life with her two girls and their equally blue eyed dad over at The Wink. Scoot on over to catch up with Allison and her delicious Blog Exchange post. Be sure to catch all the other incredible writers featured in the July Blog Exchange .

The Sweet Life

My Uncle, surf fishing.

This is part of the Weekly Photo hunters. Click to find other hunters.

(Lack of) Southern Charm

I watched as they piled out of a car. Four guys and two young women. Another guy was let out of the hatchback because there were too many of them for him to have a seat in the vehicle. They walked towards the restaurant where I was eating with my family, including my in-laws. Several of the young men had on shirts with the insignia of my father and brother's alma mater. One even wore orange shorts.

After my kids finished eating I took them back out to the front area to "play" video games. I just let them sit in front of the screens and pretend. The group of seven I saw in the parking lot were waiting for a table so I asked one of them if they attended The University.

"No." was the reply. "We live near there. We're still in high school."

Now my mental wheels start turning in total, complete panic. These children appear to be staying alone in a vacation town. These children include a combination of five males and two females. TWO FEMALES!! Does this strike anyone as particularly troublesome?

So, playing it cool I start another tact.

"Oh, my dad went to [name] County High School" which happens to be the large high school in that part of the state (or Commonwealth).

They all look at each other. "That's where we go." says one guy lounging on the bench.

"Is that big black and white photo of the football team still over the door of the gym?" I ask. Some eyebrows raise and a few nod yes, looking at each other. My lack of a southern accent does not make sense as I describe the inside of their high school. "My dad is one of the guys holding the football in the front row. He was co-captain of that team."

The team that one some type of championship (forgive me dad for not remembering the exact one) that merits the photo to still hang prominently 50 years after they won it.

No one said a word. Not even "oh". They sat there and stared at me as if I grew 54 heads.

With that I turned and whispered to my kids, did you see how rude they were? They couldn't carry on a conversation! They didn't say yes with a proper s at the end, didn't say ma'am, couldn't acknowledge your grandfather went to their high school!

So we've got rude children staying alone in a beach house. Good job parents. The southern charm and manners were just oozing that evening. You must be sooooo proud.

** Technical note: we're experiencing computer problems here at chez SMID. Basically the computer decides to shut down after 15-20 minutes of activity and needs to nap for 20-30 minutes before it will graciously wake up again. That and my kids broke the period button forcing me to use a pen to tap the round silver pad any time I want to end a sentence with something other than a question mark or exclamation point.

This means I'll be scarce (again). Please accept my apologies now. I'll visit when I can.**

Gee, I rock?

I fancy myself more of a techno-girl. I get all giddy with computer-generated drumbeats, synthesizers and faraway voices. I hear a dance tune a la 1989 and I get all glassy-eyed.

However, there is a new award floating around the blogosphere. So new I was completely unaware of it until Ms. Jenn in Holland nominated me for one.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you're favorite fag hag has been bestowed:

These things still take my breath away. I just turn on my computer and write what comes to mind. The fact a few of you comment makes me feel like there a others out in cyberland who understand.

But when one of you gives me an acknowledgement like this, well, I'm still gasping for air.

Like all awards, it must be shared. So my list will be a bit odd, because that is how I am.

1. Alex Elliot - I've said it before and I will say it again, Alex makes me feel like I am not alone in this crazy journey. She is funny, thoughtful and informative.

2. The Blog Exchange - the insanely talented Kristen Chase created and maintains the Blog Exchange among other endeavours, plus being a superior mom to two kids. It is by far my favorite "activity" that I have found so far (and no not because I finally got a couple of Best of nods). I have made wonderful friends through the exchange, found new sites to read and have been challenged to write topics I wouldn't have attempted. Oh yeah, and the three people I encouraged to join in all received Best of nods their first time in. I know how to pick 'em, yup.

3. Kate - The Pillow was packed in a box for a while but my hope is it comes out of the crate soon and is fluffed up. I went on a Blogher discussion group for working moms a couple of days after starting my blog. Kate was the ally I needed as I tripped my way through blogging. Plus, it was through her that I found The Blog Exchange. And her masthead is just awesome.

Now for the slight tweaking of the awards.

As Stephen Colbert says "I don't see race", I've been surprised at how I don't see gender among my fellow bloggers. Seriously, I think of all of you as people first. So I'm naming the following two as honorary Rockin' Girl Bloggers (both of you can feel free to ignore me or show this off with pride):

4. Gunfighter - for the exchange about bummer stickers and poverty alone he Rocks. He's a blogger who really makes people think, is hysterically funny and gets under people's skin. Seriously, he's got some folks in a dander over writing about girls whimpering or some such thing.

5. The Ambassador - o.k. so maybe I shouldn't be giving awards to people I knew BEFORE BLOGGING BEGAN but this guy was blogging before me as he dealt with the exodus from New Orleans post-Katrina. But I happen to know that he can walk in high heels better than me and knows how to wear mascara. Sorry but that makes him, at times, more girlie than me. Not that that is very difficult to do.

Although guys, if you would prefer the Rockin' Guy Blogger badge, I can send that along.

So rock on everyone. Feel free to pass this along or ignore it. Just know I think you are fab.

The drive home

9:40 am - finally in the car, can barely see the kids with all the stuff that seemed to expand while we were away

9:50 am - have gone 1 mile on the small state highway with 20+ more to go to get off the island

9:54 am - 6 1/2 year old son yells that his 3-year-old sister has thrown up in the back seat. She has.

10:02 am - we're back on the road only to pull over for homemade donuts at a bakery. The owners are training Moldavian women who barely speak English. It takes 10 minutes to fill our order, 2 minutes for the kids to finish the donuts and yell they are still hungry, another 15 to get more food.

10:32 am - back on the road

11:30am - finally off the island

12:00noon - got into another state but stuck on its highway #64

12:30 pm - barely moving on highway #64

12:37 pm - we stop for food and play in a McDonald's playspace

1:07 pm - back on the road. Still lots of traffic.

2:07 pm - my husband offers to dance naked on the roof of the car to the Lazytown CD that we've listened to 89 million times on this trip if the traffic breaks.

2:12 pm - the traffic mysteriously and without reason breaks. No accident. No sudden increase in the number of lanes. No long line at a particular exit. We are now driving faster than the posted speed limit after driving for hours at less than 20 or 30 mph.

2:14 pm - kids keep asking why we are laughing so hard, why I am unable to speak, why there are tears running down my check. [To date there has been no naked dancing to Step by Step.]

2:30 pm - kids finally fell asleep

3:30 pm - everyone is awake

3:45 pm - we pull into the visitor parking lot of a large medical center in this state's capitol to visit the 14-month-old son of my cousin. He was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer before his first birthday and he was getting a round of chemotherapy. Even though he was in a pediatric ICU, my cousin asked that we still come by to visit. She managed, in spite of our travel delays, to have her husband, mom (my aunt) and two older sons nearby so we could all visit.

The next 30 hours (we didn't get home until 10:00 pm the following day) - in spite of all the bickering, complaints of hunger, multiple bathroom breaks, never-ending playing of the Lazytown CD (but still no naked dancing on the roof), guilt over letting the kids play non-stop Gameboys and watch the same four Backyardigan episodes on DVD, the lack of any healthy foods, it all seems pretty trivial.

I've got three healthy kids and a lovely husband. We had the privilege of spending two weeks in a fancy house a mile from a beach. And I am part of a pretty amazing larger family.

Get better baby boy. Please, get better.

Family, friends and fishing

Holding a squid.

Fishing in the surf with daddy and grandfather (known as Poppa T)

Crabbing with chicken necks attached to string.

Fruits, err crabs, of our labors.

Why do you go on vacation? In case you're wondering, while my sons and husband bonded over their Southern heritage by handling slimy creatures or body parts to capture other slimy creatures, my daughter and I did our own bonding Southern-style.

We napped under the ceiling fans.

Interrupt for some Fun, High Tide and L'Amour

Huh? But I'm already on vacation. At the beach. With the man I love.

A few weeks before we left, Craig informed me we would be taking a side trip from our lovely vacation home for one night. He said it would take a few hours to get there. So Sunday arrived, and he told me it might take a bit longer than 3 hours. I still didn't pack a lot of activities for the kids because I figured it wouldn't be that long.

We left the house at 9:15 am. We were still in the car at 3:15 pm. Suddenly his joke about going to Chicago didn't seem so funny. Nor his singing We're on the Road to Nowhere. At 3:50 pm we pulled into a nondescript hotel along a highway. When we got into the room he handed the kids an envelop with 5 sheets of paper.

They were tickets to the True Colors concert that night in a venue five miles from our hotel.

My husband drove all of us nearly 300 miles to attend a Gay-palooza organized by Cyndi Lauper and the HRC to raise awareness about the Matthew Shepard amendment being considered for the federal hate crimes bill in the Senate.

I'll admit, I moaned a bit when I realized the tour with Cyndi Lauper (remember my kids sing Cyndi?), Debbie Harry of Blondie (hello? the shirt!) and of course Erasure would be in our home town during our vacation. But I moaned at most a day and I worked hard to get over it. In fact, I almost forgot the concert was even happening. Almost.

So imagine my honey's surprise when I told him that if we were at home I had no intention of taking the kids to the concert. Not because of the music (my kids also got to hear Dresden Dolls and Rufus Wainwright) but because of the MC between the acts. Apparently he had never heard of Margaret Cho. But after her first 10 minute routine we heard with the kids, we started forcing bathroom breaks and food runs on them.

But I have to say that watching my sons sing to Erasure was a trip. Having my daughter in her Tide is High t-shirt and pink cowgirl hat befriend TJ and John next to us, was so much fun. She had them dancing with her. When they left she was so sad. "Oh, my little fag hag" said my husband as he comforted her.

And we were back on the beach by Monday afternoon.

Turning Australian

Sometime around 3rd grade my brother went to the beach with his camp. His counselors forgot to put sunscreen on the pale little boy and he came home with a sunburn. Which turned into a 2nd degree burn, complete with blisters the size of egg yokes. I remember him laying propped up in bed in his darkened bedroom - barely moving from the pain - for nearly a week.

To say I'm a fanatic about sunscreen would be an understatement. And spending time by the water, while lovely, does raise my anxiety levels. So as the summer kicks in (at least in the northern hemisphere) please remember that there is an increased risk of skin cancer from over exposure to the sun. And premature wrinkles. And that sunburns HURT!

I'm almost done. There a public health campaign in Australia that my children can perfectly chant.

So, everyone now Slip-Slap-Slop:

Slip on a shirt.

Slap on a hat.

Slop on some sunscreen.

Something about my left side

We're here on vacation and something about my left side is very attractive to the locals down here. I'm serious. They find me irresistible. To the point that they physically attach themselves to me.

While walking up to the beach the top of my left arm hurt. It was a nagging hurt on my skin. Upon investigation, I found I was being bitten by a teeny, tiny red ant. And it was going to town biting, scurrying and biting some more.

A few hours later I noticed a new mole above my left hip. It was dark and very raised. As I went to check, it moved. I had a tick working very hard to get under my skin. Fortunately, after much tugging, I got it off with just two little bite marks on me. The head stayed attached to its the body.

And now this will be the vacation where my children will have to deal with me being a fanatic about ticks.


In spite of the hungry wildlife, we are having a lovely, lovely time.

Packed and ready

We're leaving tomorrow for vacation.

A two week plus vacation. This is the longest we will be away as a family, ever.

It's funny because as a family I couldn't be happier to take this vacation now. The boys' last day of kindergarten is tomorrow. We will attend their celebration concert, eat a cookie and have some apple juice. Then we will all run out of the building, screaming and tearing their school uniforms off as we replace them with Hawaiian shirts. We'll jump in the packed van - complete with bikes hanging off the back - head to the highway and get to our beach house in a different part of the country. A part of the country where everyone calls you "baby" - even in your late 30's. A part of the country where they know how to properly use "y'all".

Plus the kids are ready themselves. The boys have been packed for four days. Our daughter started to sob tonight when - standing in her pajamas, beach hat and sandals - I informed her it was bedtime and we couldn't leave until the morning. You would've thought I'd ripped her heart out. She's ready to go NOW! She is currently sound asleep with her sandals on her feet and beach hat mashed on her face.

But for my new job this couldn't come at the worst time. Everyone at the office is being so incredibly supportive about it. I told them during the interview that we had put down money on this house and they were fine with it. But 7 weeks into this job I've got projects I'm excited about, crises that I want to pay attention to and new relationships I want to keep developing. It will be hard not to check my work email or call in for updates. But I need to honor this time with my family.

Then there is this little side project of mine. The one that you all are a part of (yes, even you lurkers who don't comment). By the end of each day I literally have 2-3 posts running around in my head. I see things that I want to photograph and share with everyone. But I'm also feeling less umph to find new sites to read. Don't get me wrong, I like new people, really, and will visit you if you let me know you came by (hint, hint). I like the crowd I'm hanging with and don't feel compelled to make it bigger on my own.

So imagine my surprise when I got an international phone call yesterday from someone who was worried that I missed my 5:30am blog visit. She noted I hadn't been on any blogs for, oh, about 12 hours! That is a sign telling me I need to lay low for a while. But it was nice to hear her voice. It's quite lovely. You should really hear it someday.

I'll post a photo or two. Maybe share a vignette. But don't be alarmed if you don't hear much from me over the next two plus weeks. I'm enjoying the beach with my family.

###

And thanks to the person(s) who voted for my post in this month's Blog Exchange. I'm glad others agree that my dad really is awesome.

Less despair

In March I wrote about taking my kids and dad to a rally in support of the 300+ workers who had been detained by the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency.

Today I was back in that part of the state and I try to pick up a paper in each town I'm visiting. This was the huge photo on the front page.

Photo by Peter Pereira/The Standard-Times

Two-year-old Tomasa was reunited with her father after he had been detained for three months.

Good Night, Bug

The instant I heard the front door open, the sound of the spring on the screen door stretching to its limit, I sprang to my feet and ran toward the familiar sound. By the time the coiled metal had sprung back to its original shape and he had firmly planted both feet on the rug just inside the door, I had jumped up into his arms knowing no fear he wouldn’t catch me. As the door closed behind him he gave me a big squeeze, a kiss on the top of my head and the first of our nightly rituals was complete.

My dad rarely arrived home before dark and when your cue for bedtime is the illumination of the street lights outside in the small world of your neighborhood, late is anytime after the first firefly can be spotted in the rosebush wrapped around the light post lighting the way from the driveway to the front door. Therefore, our time was always too short.

Our embrace at the door lasted just a few moments; Too soon I was put back down onto the floor and I watched as he tossed his jacket onto the couch and unbuttoned the collar of his blue shirt. I followed him closely, taking two steps for every one of his long strides, as he strolled straight down the short, dimly lit hallway into the kitchen.

There he was met by my mother who, having heard him come in or maybe interpreted the sound of my pitter patter correctly, had already begun to re-warm what was left of the meal the two of us had eaten earlier that evening. She turned her head slightly and smiled at him over her shoulder. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took a deep breath to smell the sweet aroma of his soon-to-be late supper.

My mother informed me that it was time for bed. I looked over at my dad and gave him my most sad, most pathetic looking face in hopes that he would allow me to stay up just a little while longer. I thought if I could keep his gaze from meeting my mother’s eyes he would smile and give me a reprieve. Tonight, he turned immediately to my mother’s face and my hopes were instantly dashed.

I turned and ran upstairs to brush my teeth and get my pajamas on. I don’t know what my parents did while I got ready upstairs - maybe talked about my dad's day at work or my day at school; Whatever it was it never took very long. I had just jumped into bed, my head hitting the pillow just as my dad came through the doorway.

He walked over and pulled the covers up just over my chest. As I pulled my arms out from under the blankets another ritual began:

“Nighty night,” he said.
“Nighty night,” I echoed.

“Sleepy tight.”
“Sleepy tight.”

“See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning.”

“Pleasant dreams.”
“Pleasant dreams.”

“I love you, Bug.”
“I love you, Daddy.”

And he smiled. He always smiled at the end of our exchange.

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. My name is Nancy and I am the proud mother of two rambunctious boys, ages two and four. I've been writing fiction most of my life, but like so many before me have become an avid blogger to tell the story of my reality. You can find Allison over at my blog, Just Thinking . . . , today where she has written a truly moving piece about her own father.

Boys vs. girls - special shoe addition

How did this happen? My sons turned into little practical Germans while my daughter is a slave to fashion. She's three years old.

When I backpacked through Europe in the early 1990's, one way to tell where fellow travellers were from was what footwear - including socks - they wore. At the time Americans wore sneakers with white socks and Germans wore sandals with white or black dress socks. I'll admit, while I'm sure it was very practical from a keeping-your-feet clean perspective, the Germans' choice of footwear looked silly to me.

Fast forward to my little family. My sons for several years have worn their sandals with socks without any regard for fashion or what country they live in. The photo shows their footwear for church this morning. I asked them to consider wearing just the sandals.

One of them replied, "But the sandals rub into my feet." So practical. I would consider myself in that camp - I'm not one for crazy high heels or super pointy shoes - although I draw the line at combining socks with sandals.

Then it was time for my three-year-old to pick out her footwear for church. She chose her new sparkling flats. These are her first shoes that do not have either straps or laces. I bought them thinking they would end up in the costume basket(s), not as everyday wear.

As she walked into the church's meeting house this morning, several people asked why she was walking so funny. She was both struggling to keep the shoes on her feet and dealing with blisters. I offered to let her walk barefoot but she insisted on wearing these silver Dorothy shoes. She danced in the front during the service, pranced like a princess and generally acted like her shoes were her ticket to the ball.

So tell me. How do 6-1/2 year-old boys chose to be so practical in their footwear while a three-year-old girl endures blisters for the sake of pretty shoes? Is it in those X chromosomes?

Art

Kruger National Park, South Africa, 1999

" The camera doesn't make a bit of difference. All of them can record what you are seeing. But, you have to SEE."

--Ernst Haas, 1985

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Ice cream for dinner

The alternative title was Mean Things Adults say about Twins. You let me know if I picked the right one.

For those of you new to my little piece of the world, I'm the mom of three children - a three year old "singleton" girl and 6 year old identical twin boys. I don't like to make a big deal about their twin-ness. I cannot deny the bond they have - or that they are these identical red-head, blue eyed, pale skin boys - but it is my job to make sure they see themselves as individuals first.

Which is a large reason why they were in separate classes for kindergarten this year. Interestingly, they still have some mutual friends but for the most part I hear about different kids from each of them.

Yet, for some reason every birthday invitation this year included both guy. Until last week when a pink princess invitation showed up for one guy. And if he didn't have a disappointed twin brother we would've let him be all happy about the invitation all week. Unfortunately he had to dampen his happiness to not exacerbate his brother's misery. And if it had been the other way around, we would've been asking the same thing of the other brother.

Then I had to think of something fun for the left-out brother that wasn't too outrageous. I couldn't set a precedent that there would be an ostentatious compensation for being on the outs.

He came with me to drop off his brother at the birthday party. Then I took him to the local ice cream parlor for a chocolate frappe before dinner. I told him he didn't even have to eat dinner if he wasn't hungry. "You mean this can be my dinner?" he asked incredulously. Maybe this was outrageous. Outrageous enough.

He asked me about my day at work. When I told him I was learning the intricacies of some affordable housing laws he commented that he'll have to explain to a friend that when he builds houses as a grown-up they'll have to be "affordable".

We went back to retrieve party boy. In the car he said that the birthday girl's mom asked where his brother was. She then said she should have written "and siblings" on the invitation.

"But she said that now she didn't have to worry about who I was because he wasn't there!" he added.

So this woman told my six-year-old kid that her life was easier because his identical brother wasn't there. And he (of course) reported that back to all of us.

Hours later, I still don't know what to say in response.

I felt kicked in the gut by that comment. I hope it went over left-out-boy's head. Or that the ice cream softened the blow.

A bit tired

I was woken up before 4:30 this morning.

Don't go blaming my darling cherubs.

Although usually if I tell this story it involves someone under 7 years old yelling "MOMMY!" and me scurrying to bring the yeller back in our bed to get him/her to go back to sleep. Sometimes it works. But then I lay awake.

This time the story involves jack-hammers. At 4:30 in the morning.

We live on a state highway. That inherently brings traffic and noise. Several years ago we needed the gas company to come in the evening to dig a hole when there was a gas leak. I recognize when loud noises are necessary for public safety.

However, this was the town Department of Public Works (DPW) using jack hammers to dig up - I kid you not - two traffic islands near our house at 4:30 in the morning.

There is no public safety reason to jack-hammer traffic islands at 4:30 in the morning.

So my husband went down to investigate and call the police. They told him it was a DPW issue. We live in one of, if not the only, state that requires a police detail for all public works project. He told the dispatcher there was no detail at the site. That got their attention. There was a police officer within 5 minutes. He also left a message on the work number of the DPW director. He joked he should have found his home number to wake him up. I told him that if our kids woke up we were calling the DPW director at his home. Somehow the kids slept through the entire thing. I did not.

I left the house at 6:55 am and the jack hammers were still going. The DPW director called my husband at 7:05 am to apologize profusely and explain he didn't know how this happened.

When asked what the crew was doing, the director said they were tearing up the traffic islands to put in flowers.

Let me repeat, I was woken up before 4:30 in the morning for frigging flower beds.

I'm not a stalker

Please be assured that I have no plans of stalking anyone. Really.

It isn't like I've been following the British synth-popster Vince Clark since the mid-1980's and own nearly every single record and/or CD he has been involved in.

Who, you ask? Who?

Vince Clark:

was a founding member of Depeche Mode in the late 1970's and wrote nearly all the songs on their first album Speak and Spell (including my favorite Boys Say Go).

left the band and created Yaz (Yazoo in England) with Alison Moyet - Don't Go, Situation, and Midnight are just yummy.

there was a little adventure called The Assembly that produced a single.

Then, the wonderful and glorious Andy Bell joined Vince to form Erasure and for the last 20 years have created such tunes as Blue Savannah, Oh L'Amour, Sometimes and Always.

I've seen them open for Duran Duran in the 1980's. That's right, I went to a huge venue to dance and scream during the opening act. The lights were on, the teeny-boppers talked through the performance and were very confused with the lead singer in a rubber top that resembled a baseball catcher's vest.

Then there was the night they performed an over-21 performance while I was still a senior in high school (therefore NOT 21). I cried at home. At one point my dad offered to take me and tell the bar owners he wouldn't let me drink. I explained it was a bar, not an R rated movie. But to this day I'm still grateful that he understood how deep this adoration goes.

So deep in fact that when they toured for Chorus AND DIDN'T GO TO NEW ORLEANS (hello - do they know there are gay people there? And hags who LOVE them?) friends at the time who were living in Houston went to the concert and got a poster signed for me. Why didn't I go? I was a public school teacher and it was during the week. Houston and during the week. Just adding insult to injury.

Even my kids - who will insist on the same song over and over and OVER again regardless of the crazed look on my face - realized they had to relinquish the car CD player last Tuesday evening so I could play the newest CD, Light at the End of the World. When there were a few whimpers I would say with reverence "But I'm hearing these songs for the first time!"

And now the song they call "# 2" (I could fall in love with you) is the new favorite for the kids. Just keeping them culturally informed.

Last week there was an article about Vince Clark in my local paper to correspond with the release of this CD. And guess what? He lives 2 hours and 59 minutes from my house. It's not like I inserted my town and his town into Google Maps and figured out he lives THREE HOURS AWAY FROM ME!!

Breath. I promise I will not jump in the car and descend upon his quaint little home. Really.

Really.

This weekend we ran away

To the new modern art museum next to the harbor.

Little Miss made her own art under a mural called "Beautiful Gas". (Figure it out.)

We spent the night at a fancy hotel with glass elevators, a pool and a view of the river and city.

It was a lovely time.

Colorful

Fabric at the India Independence Day Celebration, 2006.


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Sad

One day during my senior year of high school I came home and picked up the mail lying on the entry way floor. There was an envelop addressed to me without a return address. I tore it open and only read the first line.

It contained nothing but expletives about what the writer was going to do to me. I dropped the letter and have never seen it again.

Eventually my mom came home and did what a good, loving mother does. She became the raging mama lion defending her young. She went to the police and demanded they open a case. They tried to dismiss it as "something boys do" and she went ballistic. She demanded a meeting with the principal and got the school to compare the handwriting on the letter with students' writing folders. We also finally realized we had been getting crank calls at home and had the phone company monitor our phone line (this was before caller id).

It all pointed to a pretty lonely kid. Someone who was in a few classes with me but I had never interacted with. This kid was actually in bad shape. My mom then demanded a meeting with the kid and parents and somehow extracted a promise of mental health counseling. As the months wore on this kid looked better.

I tell you this because for the first time as a blogger I got a truly hateful comment in response to my piece about the kids' silhouette portraits.

Anonymous said...
you sound like the biggest loser I have every heard!!!!!!I pity your poor poor kids when they actually get out in the REAL world.....OMG you make me sad for you!!!

And while a dear friend of 15 years came to my defense (oh how I love you), I'm not upset by it. I am sad but not what Anonymous thinks. I'm sad that you had to spend the energy to be mean. Are you o.k.?

Paper and scissor

We ran into the children's book store and were sent to the back. The young woman had a chair up against a wall and a chair for herself a few feet away. Craig and I wondered how she would do it. Would she flash a big light and trace around their heads?

Our daughter balked at going first so one of our sons jumped on the chair. He faced us and this woman who looked to be 27 years old studied his profile. Then she started to cut a small square of black paper. As the pieces fell, our son's profile appeared. She just looked at him and cut.

Our daughter got up next and played a three-year-old's variation of "I Spy" with us to keep her sitting in profile. The artist told us she liked the challenge of cutting out curly hair. Then our other son jump on the chair and sat patiently as she cut out his profile.

She cut out three portraits of our children in less than 15 minutes.

From Wikipedia -

A silhouette is a profile traced onto and then cut from black paper and was a simple alternative for people who could not afford other forms of portraiture, which, in the eighteenth century, was still an expensive proposition. The word took its name from Étienne de Silhouette, either because the victims of his taxes complained that they were reduced to mere shadows or because he enjoyed this fad art in his retirement.

Spirit

So we're a bit slow with the kid movies here. Someone just recently gave us Spirit, the Disney movie about a horse that fights people during the US government expansion into the west. It parallels the wild horses' plight to that of Native Americans.

As the movie ends the narrator/Native American says something insanely ridiculous to the effect (and I am paraphrasing) and we both ran our ways, to our freedom. It did make me teary-eyed - because it was a big joke and my kids were hearing this.

From my father's side we are descended from a Cherokee woman who married a Calvary officer to avoid the 1838 Trail of Tears. All we know about her is the Christianized name written into a family Bible. What was that decision like for Marie? What did she give up? Did this officer treat her well? What was her life like?

So I'm sitting in the dark, stewing over this Disney fallacy, when one of my sons bursts into full blown sobs and throws himself on to the chair. "I never want to watch this movie EVER AGAIN!"

"Why?" I ask, with much concern.

"Because it is sad!"

"But the horse got away. He's still free."

"It is still sad!"

Maybe he knows more than I thought. Or maybe the spirit of Marie is trying to tell us that it wasn't a happy ending after all.

I couldn't resist

Tee-hee

Yet. Another. Rainy. Day

Take:

One boy in a red Power Ranger costume, with cape, and snow boots (because his rain boots are wet, ohhhh).

One boy in a police costume, with cap, and snow boots (see #1).

One girl in raincoat and rain boots (because she's normal).

Toy microphone.

Hot pink straw cowgirl hat.

Hobby horse.

Flashlight.

Two toy swords from a knight costume.

One pair of toy handcuffs.

Run through the rain and jump into the van. Drive to friend's house to borrow key to church parish hall. Go to church, open door and have kids run screaming into the empty dark building.

Find lights and let them run amok in Great Hall, dance on the stage, sing "Who Let the Dogs Out" 58 million times, throw the swords across the hall, slide on their knees, march, ride the horse, fight over the microphone, make grand entrances from the hallway, have stylized sword fights.

After 38 minutes they want to leave.

It's only 9:50 in the morning.

We go to the coffee shop. I ask the kids who work there, "Is it too early to tell them its bedtime?"

They didn't get the joke. But then, maybe I wasn't really joking.

Cooked

Cook [kook] -Slang.
a. to be full of activity and excitement: Las Vegas cooks around the clock.
b. to perform, work, or do in just the right way and with energy and enthusiasm: That new drummer is really cooking tonight.

Hugh Masekala cooked at the New Orleans Jazz Fest 1999

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Like mummies

The boys have been running around in my brother's old Star Wars costumes. The ones like garbage bags with hard plastic masks.

I explained they needed to be careful since the costumes were 30 year old. One of them said,

"30 years old?! That's like a thousand year old mummy!"

Yeah, and they smell like one too.

Cyndi on Monomane Taikai

In case your Japanese is a bit rusty, Monomane Taikai is a Japanese show. The title translates to literally mean "Mimicry Competition". A friend who recently finished graduate school took the time to explain the following video to me:

"Every year, on January 1st (hence they are all wearing kimonos), a bunch of celebrities, actors, actresses, and comedians get together to compete. Basically they pick whoever they want to mimic (usually singers because after all it's a singing competition) and practice for hours and hours before the show. The competition is divided into 2 groups - red and white (in accordance with our flag) and each person gets a score for his/her performance and whoever gets the highest (of the 2 group) gets to go to the next round, until, the final one is chosen. I used to watch it all the time because it was hilarious and some compete seriously while others just do it for fun, and make it funny. Sometimes they bring in the real person who sings along with the person competing.... Pretty crazy, huh?"

Thanks friend. My kids love this clip. If you look hard there are some fabulous drag queens. And that person in the silver outfit with the black circles on her/his head is just too delicious.

Although this smart, fashionable woman from Japan is now worried that my kids think all Japanese are like those folks on the show.

Don't worry friend. They just think their mother is.

Elections

Today was special election day in my town. Our state representative left office to join the new Administration so we had a lively race here. Five democrats duked it out in a primary last month - the winner won by 26 votes. Then there is the Republican who is always running. He is a one issue candidate. He opposes marriage equality (do not to tell me you agree with him. Look at how I describe myself in the top right corner of the page. Proudly!).

Then there is the Independent. Unlike many races, he is a viable candidate. He owns the local independent (no pun intended) movie theater which houses the Museum of Bad Art in the basement. He has a solid base of supporters and is well organized.

But a few weeks ago, a good friend of mine who works in the State House gave me grief for not running. Me. Run for State Representative. While I was flattered, I knew that he knew too.

I have entertained the idea of running for office. I just love the process of making a law happen. Of making sure that a law, budget item or program works. Of figuring out how to make our tax dollars work for us as a whole society. I know how to organize a campaign. I just hate the asking for money to get elected.

So, my dear friends, I'm asking for a little help to get me over this (no, I'm not asking for money).

Please vote for me in the Blogger's Choice Awards. Just click BOTH boxes below (you will need to register) and vote for me.





Thank you (and a sincere thank you to Gunfighter for the nominations/vote and to Jenn in Holland and Brillig for their votes). By doing this, you are helping me get over my distaste for asking people to do something cumbersome (e.g. registering for an e-vote; giving money).

And unlike the two elections I've participated in in the last 72 hours, I can keep track of your votes. No secret ballots here!

Special Day

Yesterday was indeed a special day. In part because of the beautiful, cloudless sky. There were also the gifts both material and invaluable. There was the bringing together of several generations to celebrate the bond of family.

It was also the first time I got to vote.

For a minister.

We are members of a church that first gathered in 1638. The most recent minister retired two years ago and we have been on a journey to find our next one. It involves meetings, surveys, serious evaluation of how we behave as a spiritual community and the compiling of a binder that explains who we are. All of this is led by a search committee and they worked very hard to find the candidate who would lead us.

I remember when my childhood church called a minister in the 1970's. I was around my sons' ages now. The memory is still strong. Our minister was going to be a woman. It was splashed over the suburban town newspapers that she was to be the first woman to lead a church in our community. And since the majority of the town was Catholic, this was a big deal. There is a lot of talk now about not voting for women simply because they are women. I'm not advocating to vote along "gender lines". I'm telling a story of how the calling of a woman minister made me as a little girl so very proud.

This Sunday, I voted for the first time for a minister. And she too is the first woman to lead a faith community in this new town I call home. She spoke last week of finding happiness in frightening times. This past Sunday she spoke of embracing change and how we are all leaders in making that change happen.

Welcome Reverend.

Five

I work near Chinatown and there are many wonderful old buildings.

[Well, old for the United States.]

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Watches

A completely vain post but I have a thing for watches. I've lost count but these are some of my favorites.




This is one of my first off-beat watches. I bought it my senior year of high school with babysitting money. The man with an eye patch and a hat is a Peter Max illustration.







Then there is this foursome.

The red face to the right of the green one has a likeness of Mao. His waving hand ticks off the seconds. A friend got it for me in Hong Kong, while it was still British.

The blue faced watch is Barbie-esque and celebrates road trips with a Route 66 theme. I got it at Century 21 with Flower Girl, years before 9/11.

And this is my all-time favorite, but I can't really wear it around the kids. They get freaked out that I'm wearing a watch with a moving hatchet, a fat king in the middle and six women on the outside. Then they hear me mutter, "Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived" as the hatchet ticks off the seconds.

Watches are suppose to tell time. That's it.

Oh but how boring.

Confession

Greetings everyone and welcome to tonight's meeting. Before we go around the room to say our names, let us give a warm hello to a first time attender. Would you like to introduce yourself?

Hi. I'm Soccer Mom in Denial. Some folks refer to me as SMID.

I'm sorry but in these meetings we use our given names. Not our, ahem, blogging names.

Oh. Hi, I'm Allison.

[Everyone in the room] HI ALLISON!

Allison, do you want to say something else?

Um. Hi, I'm Allison and I am a blogging addict.

Ooo, we are so proud of you this evening. Coming to Bloggers Anonymous. Could you tell everyone when you realized this?

I proudly participated in the One Day of Silence (murmurs of appreciation) and made a public commitment to not post, comment or even read a blog for 24 hours. It was really hard for me to not go on my site, to check other friends' sites. Thank goodness some of my blogging buddies emailed me that day or I would've gone stir crazy because....

I'm sorry dear but you refer to "these people"as your "buddies". You consider them "friends"? You haven't even met them. How can you say that about, ahem, these people?

You know, I can. These are folks who have bothered to pay attention to the little things in my life. The life of my family. They have offered me encouragement and words of wisdom. They have found my email and shared wonderful bits of their lives. I am part of an exciting community.... [gets up from chair.... starts walking to the door....]

Some of them have been kindred spirits right away. Even on paper we were meant to know each other. Some are so completely outside who I would meet in my day-to-day life that there is no other way I could've met them accept through blogging. And all of them have made me richer.

Allison, please don't leave the room. It is time for us to officially welcome you as you begin your first day away from blogging. [The room starts to rumble as people make comments....]

Oh no. I've got too many posts in my head. And please, call me SMID.

We no that

Look for this on the New York Times best seller list. The author of this three page book is my son.

The Cover Page

Page 2 - "Mom we no That you ree kind."

Last page.