Peanuts and Cracker Jack

Well I got the Cracker Jack. How can you not when in one of the most historic ball parks in the country? The other fans I was with got ice cream and cotton candy.

My dad and brother are part of a group of folks who share a pair of season tickets. Earlier this month my dad asked someone who sits next to him if he could have his two tickets so we could have four seats all together for one game.

Last night we brought the boys to their first game since they were 3 years old. That game they and their 3 month old sister had their photo taken with the team mascot. It ended up as our Christmas card photo because it was a really good photo and folks kept bugging me to make it our "official holiday" family photo. We're not that much of a sports obsessed family, and it was the year our daughter was born, so it was a bit odd to have that be the image for the year. I declared I would only use it if the team won the world series. I figured I was pretty safe since they hadn't won in 86 years.

Clearly the Christmas card goddess wanted to play a mean joke on me.

It was a perfect summer evening. Our boys of summer won the game. Our own boys made it through the entire game. A first for these little men. They got through the 7th inning stretch to sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game and our own hometown tradition of 39,000+ people singing Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline during the 8th inning.

Sweet Caroline (bahm bahm bahm)
Good times never seemed so good (so good so good so good!)
I've been inclined (bahm bahm bahm)
To believe they never would

But now I....

Sweet indeed.

The Blame Game

You know the ones we're talking about. Those bloggers with their memes, interviews, contests. You can't stop thinking about it. You keep on entering, or modifying your entry. You think about something else you want to say. You add to what you've written or submit another entry or find yourself tagged yet again for another meme.

Or maybe it's a quiz that you can't stop taking.

Or a post where the comments are fast and furious and you can't stop checking on what else someone else has said.

Suddenly, you find that this whole theme has taken over your thoughts while riding or driving, your quiet time when you should be working, your dreams at night, your blog! We (a self-appointed committee of like-minded bloggers) decided it was time to give credit where it's due and have developed this very special "Blame It On THIS Blog!" Award.

It is my distinct pleasure, along with Jenn, Ms. FA and Jami, to present the first ever "Blame It On THIS Blog!" Award to Leslie of My Mommy's Place. As Jenn wrote today "The Blame [Leslie] receives is well deserved as she caused me and many others some serious haiku grief these past few weeks as we scribbled and scrawled through the blogosphere in 17 syllables. She knows what she started and she is rightfully proud of the onslaught in 5-7-5 rhythm which began with a challenge at her place."

Leslie is to blame
For creating this big game
That spread like the flu




This button is for you darling!

Awarded jointly by the committee formed to award such things as this.

Would you like to bestow the Wicked Witch button to someone? The rules are simple.

1. Sometimes we all want to blame someone. If you know of a deserving blogger, please submit your nomination and reasons for placing the "Blame" to the Award committee: Jenn in Holland, Soccer Mom In Denial, Not That Different and Fourier Analyst.

No one wants to be "Blamed" for everything, so please limit your reasons for nominating to specific and deserving instances where "Blame" should be given. Recipients of the "Blame" will receive the button to display on their blog along with their "Mea Culpa" at their own convenience.

The Award committee wants to remind all bloggers that they should not be discouraged if their nominee does not get an award the first time as there is plenty of "Blame" to go around and at any future time it may be deservedly placed!

2. Anyone who has received the "Blame" is also free to pass it on to another blogger, once! We hope all recipients of the "Blame" award will accept it in the humorous spirit in which is has been conceived!

Soap Opera Sunday - First (french) kiss

Brillig and Walking Kateastrophe's collective baths continue. Here is another one of my sudsy tales....

The summer before eighth grade, I worked as a Counselor in Training (yup a CIT) for a camp my brother and I attended for several years. I loved it. So much that I ended up working there as a counselor through my freshman year of college. But that isn't what this post is about.

Most of my school friends that summer enrolled in a summer sailing program that cost $1. Yup, $1 for months of sailing instruction, access to boats and members of what-ever gender you were attracted to. I'm sure the $1 fee was intended for more poverty-stricken youth but no one asked the kids from the suburbs what their parents' incomes were so they all went sailing.

A few times I joined them. Some of my girlfriends had become friendly with some boys from a different town. They were all a year older. They were going into high school.

One of them was Lew Root (not his real name). Lew was blond and tall (like 5'10"). And he was older than me. An entire year older. One of my friends started "dating" a friend of his so after the sailing program ended, we would occasionally double date.

Later in the school year, my friend and I went to a dance at, gasp, the other town's high school. We were the dates of our, tee-hee, high school boyfriends. The high school gym was dark and the DJ played early '80's songs because it was the early '80's.

Eventually, Lew and I made it to the far wall in front of the pushed up bleachers where other couples were making out. I was just so excited to finally, for the first time, kiss a boy at a dance. I lifted my chin, just like in the movies, closed my eyes and opened my mouth ever so slightly.

And thought my tongue was going to be ripped out.

This may also have been Lew's first attempt at a french kiss as well. He seemed to think that you sucked really hard on the other person's tongue. With a lot of force.

So I pulled away, fortunately with my tongue still in my mouth, and ran back to my girlfriend (a chaste Catholic who wouldn't go near that wall, much to her boyfriend's dismay) and yelled to the group they were standing with,

"Lew kisses like a vacuum cleaner!!"

The entire group, mostly 9th grade boys who were classmates of Lew's, burst into hysterical laughing. We didn't see each other after that night.

***

Three years later I was the Head Drum Major for our 100+ marching band. Drum Major. Not Majorette. I wasn't some girl in a little skirt twirling a baton. I led the band on the field during performances. I conducted the music and co-led rehearsals (you haven't lived until you've conducted Sweet Georgia Brown). I yelled commands ("Atten-hut! For-ward march!"). I will admit I did some twirling. It was a three foot long mace with a big spike at one end that I threw into the ground with a grand, forceful jab. I could've killed someone with that thing. I most definitely wasn't an ornamental majorette.

Our high school football team had a pre-season game against Lew's high school team. The band went as well. I hadn't talked to Lew since that night in his high school gym. He was a senior by then and I noticed he was walking around with a camera. Turns out he was the yearbook photographer.

After I had lined up the band I turned around to face the field with my chin up and shoulders back (standard Drum Major stance). Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lew then heard,

"Hey Hoover! We need you to take a picture over here!" He winced.


Hoover? HOOVER?!?!? This kid, for the last three years had been carrying the nickname "Hoover" (which in case you don't know is the name of a brand of vacuum cleaners).

I am apologizing that my outburst as an 8th-grader led to such a mean-spirited nickname. While it is funny, it was a horrid name to bear during the cruel years of adolescence.

I just hope his 20th high school reunion last year didn't use nicknames on the name tags.

C'Mon! Vote for Jenn's Photo

As some of you know, my dear friend is back from China. I have been nagging her to publish her stunning images in a coffee table book, or at least a calendar.

The next best thing is being included in a group coffee table book but we need to vote her into the book. Click here and vote for this photograph




Entitled Year of the Pig, click the third button once you are on the site and after you vote see how she's doing in the poll.

This is how she explained it in an email to me:

My photo was posted on this blog, which is creating a coffee table book of China photos for charity. Each week photos are posted and the ones that win the vote will be kept in the running to be in the coffee table book! You don't have to sign up or anything to vote. Just go to the link and click [my] button!

So go click! Give Jenn your pick! Nice rhyme huh?

Happy Blog-iversary

This little experiment is one year old today. On this day in 2006 I put up my first post explaining why I was jumping in. Mainly because at my then-job I was having to ask low-income - some homeless - women to blog on our non-profit organization's website. I didn't want to ask them to do something that I didn't know about.

And what a year I have had.

I spent the first few months really writing for myself. I didn't know the games, err, repeat commenting, that were done to ensure "readership". Never mind the concept of linky love. But then I jumped into my first Blog Exchange, started visiting blogs of people who left interesting comments and I found a group of folks I really like. They are listed on the side. Go visit them if you haven't.

I've been thinking of the all the new people I've "met" (or e-met) this year. Of all the experiences, personal stories and perspectives you have shared. Some of you have even become close email buddies (doesn't that inspire you to leave your email address when you comment?). I'm grateful for all that you have taught me and inspired me to be as a blogger.

I've gone back and looked at the 226 posts from the year and these are some of my favorites (note some - I started with a much longer list):

The Red Balloon

Yaz: Medicine or Music?

Because You Asked

National (Public Radio) Exposure

For Good

Paris 1990 and Part Deux

Tongans, Fire and Sugar

Talking About It

Channeling the inner black Diva

Saying Goodbye

Those of you that have been regular readers, do you agree with the list? Was there one (or nine) you particularly liked that I didn't mention? Please let me know.

Thank you for being part of this journey, whether you comment or not. It's nice to have all of you out there.

Fake lettuce and red raisins

I swore never to lie to my children about the food I gave them. Ever.

I remember the restaurant buffet clearly. I was being a total, complete, irritating nudge of an 8-year-old as my mom was trying to fill plates for me, my four-year-old brother and herself.

"What's that?" I'd ask in an irritating voice while pointing at foods I knew perfectly well.

"What's that?" I pointed to carrots.

"Carrots" my mom replied.

"What's that?" I pointed to cucumbers.

"Cucumbers" she said more tersely.

"What's that?" pointing to leafy green things, expecting her to say lettuce.

"Spinach."

"Oooo yuck!" I declared. "I HATE spinach!"

"No you don't," she practically snarled, clearly at the end of her rope. "I've been putting it in your salad for years and telling you it was lettuce."

I nearly dropped my plate in horror. My mom lied to me. I felt betrayed, let down.

But I love spinach salad to this day.

Thirty years after that evening in the restaurant, I now have a daughter who will only eat carrots for her vegetable and raisins for her fruit. I take comfort that she eats tomato sauce with pasta and on pizza and just loves guacamole. I'm so desperate I count the jelly in the fruit bars for a serving of fruit. I'm grateful she loves orange juice. Watered down, of course.

So imagine my surprise when she started picking the blueberries and cranberries out of my multi-berry muffin and happily eating them. She called them raisins. I didn't correct her.

I bought dried cranberries at the store and told everyone they were "red" raisins. She bawked at first but now eats her "red" raisins.

So how do I break the news? Hopefully I'll have a few years to continue the tradition of motherly betrayal.

But maybe she'll love craisins well into her 30's.

My job (explained by the Daily Show)

I must thank Jon Stewart and Larry Wilmore, the Senior Black Correspondent, for explaining subprime loans. As Mr. Wilmore says "they are the menthol cigarettes of loans."

A part of my job is to work on state policies impacting housing, small business and asset development. And the foreclosure crisis raging through the United States is a prime (pardon the pun) example.

Now don't glaze over here (I see you over there thinking this doesn't concern me). All kidding aside, did you know:

• A Federal Reserve study found that 55 percent of blacks and 45 percent of Hispanics received home loans with rates exceeding Treasury securities by at least 3 percentage points; only 17 percent of whites received such loans.
• The Federal Reserve, in testimony last month before the subcommitee on Oversight and Investigations for the Congressional Committee on Financial Services noted a list of financial institutions they have referred to the Department of Justice (don't laugh) for discriminatory practices. For instance, one institution had two discriminatory policies - one that prohibited lending on Native American lands. The other policy restricted lending on row houses, which resulted in discrimination against African-Americans.

And don't assume these are folks, like in the parody above, who are refinancing their homes to buy motorcycles or buying homes that are too big for them. We are hearing some heartbreaking stories:

• a couple who didn't want to put their adult son in a nursing home after a devastating car accident. They refinanced their mortgage to pay for modification to accommodate his health care needs to keep him at home. Jobs were lost and the institution refused to renegotiate the terms of the loan. Until a large daily newspaper called about the family.
• family members going in on a home together assuming both will be employed.
• homeowners buying two- or three- family homes (e.g. double or triple deckers) assuming rental income will help with the mortgage.
• and the most insidious - homeowners who are fraudulently tricked into signing for a loan they can't afford. We have seen documentation of income numbers being changed without the signatory knowing and people being bullied at the signing to agree to different conditions.
  

Some of these are issues that only the federal government can address since the issues cross state lines. However, one legislative option in my state is forcing mortgage companies to be graded on the same type of "report card" that banks have dealt with for over 30 years. The Community Reinvestment Act (CRA) was an attempt to address racial discrimination by banks. It forced them to publicly acknowledge what type of products (including mortgage rates) are being made available across neighborhoods.

There was a time when you bought your house from a local realtor and got your mortgage from the local bank. The banker was often someone you saw at the grocery store. It was someone who knew your family. Now loans are "owned" by large companies that don't care if a disabled son will end up in a nursing home or that entire neighborhoods are collapsing because everyone was hit with rising interest rates.

This is an example of how bigger isn't necessarily better. Of how people with little understanding of financing or banks but want to own a home for their children to grow up in are being taken advantage of. Or of how mortgage lenders are intentionally engaging in documented discriminatory practices.

This is an example of how we need to pay attention to how big business and our government (remember it is OUR government) treat us.

Baby Coming Back to be Right by Your Side

Would you believe I found this because the kids asked to see Annie Lennox on YouTube?

Really.

Soap Opera Sunday

One of my favorite bloggers, Brillig, has been writing her sudsy tales and is now organizing a collective bath with her friend Walking Kateastrophe. Fortunately, they are not requiring weekly commitments. They let you play when you want, as often as you want.

So here is one of my favorite tales to tell.

I hopped on a plane Sunday after the holiday break to return to New Orleans. I had spent the holiday hanging with family and went down to New Jersey to ring in the New Year. I had been teaching an Emotional Disturbed Behavior Disordered first through third grade class in a predominately black school (there was one Latino student). The year I started teaching David Duke, the former Klu Klux Klansman leader, was running for Governor. The students spoke of their fears that he would be elected.

But first I had to fly through Houston.

While waiting for my connection to New Orleans, I saw Phil*. Phil was one of the trainers at the health club I worked out at. Health club being a bit too fancy a description for it really was a storefront with gym equipment.

Phil looked awful. He was with a group of guys who were all in various states of awfulness. But there was one who was bright and talkative. Phil waved and walked over while his buddy followed. I learned that all these New Orleans guys were in the Army Reserves and returning from a weekend training. Apparently, they all went to a strip club the night before and Phil became, shall we say, friendly with one of the ladies. He was nearly passing out while talking to me.

We all got on the plane and I was seated in the row in front of Phil and his friend, Jack*. To this day I'm not sure how he did this but somehow I ended up sitting next to Jack and Phil had my seat. Jack was very talkative. We had similar tastes in music and talked about bands we had seen in concert. While talking about his fiancee he commented "She's a Yankee just like you. Can I have your number? I know she'll like you."

The plane landed and while we were collecting our luggage Jack brought over his fiancee for us to meet. They insisted we have dinner together. I thought nothing of it.

Jack called me Tuesday evening to join him, his fiancee and a friend for dinner that Saturday. He gave me directions to their house and it was easy to find that night.

I walked in to the shotgun-style house to find Jack and his fiancee, Susan* setting the table while their friend was furiously cooking in the kitchen. While I don't remember everything he made, there were these stuffed bell peppers that came from heaven. If heaven has stuffed bell peppers. They were a charming group but I don't remember much of the conversation. I remember the bell peppers.

We decided to go hear some music but first had to visit Jack's parents' house. I think a cousin was visiting before leaving for a tour of duty in Korea and both Jack and the friend wanted to say good luck. Shortly after I was introduced to Jack's father it became apparent he didn't like me.

His only daughter had just announced her engagement to a man from Boston, my hometown. His girl was marrying a Yankee.

The worst part of the visit came in the family room. I was sitting on the sofa next to Jack's dad when he went into great detail about another son's mugging. He kept referring to the assailant as "a Democrat".

"And the Democrat hit him on the head..."

"And the Democrat kicked him..."

Strange, I thought, that he would know the political affiliation of a mugger.

"Oh that's right," Jack's father sneered, "you're a Yankee. Down here we call them n*ggers Democrats."

Right then all the struggles of my black students came crashing down on my shoulders. How the hell could they get ahead when this man, an acknowledged leader of the community, spoke so ill of others? I literally felt my vision narrow. I could see Jack, Susan and their friend huddled in the kitchen. I later learned they were in a panic trying to figure out how to extradite me from this drunk, angry man.

The extraction, drive and settling into a table at the music bar are a bit of a blur. What I recall next was going on a pure tirade about racists, the struggles of poor blacks in New Orleans (of course, I was such an expert at 23 years old having lived there for 5 months), stupid white men, etc. etc.

The friend, who was half-Cajun and half-Italian, agreed with everything I said. He even said that when he married, he was going to take his wife's last name. Eventually I calmed down. We danced, drank and even hatched a plan for the four of us to go to the friend's parents' house "in the country" the next day.

That morning I got a call from the friend that a visit to the country was scratched but he asked if I would go out for drinks the upcoming Wednesday. I agreed.

The first bar we went to was the hotel where the movie Pretty Baby was filmed. An old-style hotel. The bar was paneled with dark wood and the bartenders knew my date by name. Once we sat down for a drink he started telling me about this book he read about welfare policy in my home state. He had read a book between Sunday and Wednesday.

I got home an hour before I was to report to school that morning. Needless to say I wasn't the most effective teacher that day.

I later learned that the Tuesday phone call by Jack, inviting me to have dinner had preceded the call to the friend. Apparently the subsequent phone call was "Man, I met this girl on the plane and you HAVE to meet her!"

Also, Jack didn't like the friend's girlfriend. The day after we met, the friend broke up with her.

I married the friend three years later.

*Phil, Jack and Susan are not their real names.

We're still in touch with Jack. He and Susan never married and eventually broke up. He did marry and his family had to leave New Orleans and resettle elsewhere after Hurricane Katrina.

Phil was killed in the late 1990's in a bar fight. I'm forever grateful that he introduced me to Jack, who introduced me to my love, all because he didn't like the girlfriend.

So I was discussing Haiku with the train conductor

Yes, I showed the train conductor the Haiku poems I was working on.

He was walking up the aisles, preparing for the final stop on the line when he did a double take and stared at me.

"I thought chu were gonna stab me which yor pen!"

"No, I was sounding out syllables.... I can't believe I was about to tell you this. Never mind."

"Wha? Wha?" He walks over to my bench and looks over my shoulder.

Now I'm done for. "I'm writing a Haiku about Sudoku. Do you remember Haiku from English class?"

"Yeah, yeah" as he starts to read what I wrote:

Hurry line up one

through nine in boxes and rows

before my stop comes.

"I have a friend who is doing these and..." this is sounding bizarre. And now I'm plotting to kill her. Even though we haven't met in person, yet.

Then he reads another I wrote in honor of Norm,

One day may we find

acceptance for all of us

With love, hope and peace.

"So you gonna go home tonight and make dinner for yor hubby right?" he asks. He looks like he is hatching a plan.

"No, he works late. I'm making dinner for the kids."

His look clearly conveyed I wasn't getting this. "You need to write one of them poems for yor husband so he'll come home early!" he winks.

That particular Haiku will be a private one. But in honor of tonight's train conductor:

Who knew a train fare

would lead to poetry talks

and lovers' advice

Yup, more haikus for Leslie's Haiku Buckaroo contest. Come on. You know you want to enter. You've got until August 10th to do it. And you don't need a blog. You can send it to her via email. So all you lurkers, make Leslie happy.

Perfection

Such a loaded word. Perfect. It implies no errors. Somehow above others. Without flaws.

Feel free to giggle at this being associated with me.

Jenn in Holland gave me a gift of Perfect Post for July for what I wrote about Norm. This from a woman who wins more awards, and reads more blogs, than humanly possible. To get this from her is an honor. To get this about someone I admire even doubly so.

[Thanks to Momma K and Lindsay for hosting the Perfect Post awards. Check their sites for more Perfect Posts.]

But we also had a perfect weekend. Or as close to one as you can get. We journeyed to the capital of a neighboring state. It is a city on the move. We couldn't believe all the fun we could have a mere 40 minutes from home.

We saw a 5 day old giraffe (apparently we were following Alex Elliot's various men. They were visiting the baby the previous day). The zoo staff were begging people to be quiet in the "barn". My kids were silent for over 10 minutes. They didn't want to leave the baby. I didn't want to leave the silence.



We all rode on an old-fashioned carousel, complete with blinking lights, mirrors and the tinny 19th-century music. Then the people under 80 pounds each had a turn riding a real pony.

But the main reason we went to this town was the WaterFire. A combination of music, performance art and, yes, fire. It started with a half hour of ethereal music playing from speakers in the middle of the river.


Then a woman came out on a low boat, banging a gong.



Then a boat full of people in black clothing lit each pile of wood floating above the water. Soon the rippling water reflected the orange, red and yellow of the fire. The clouds parted and a full summer moon appeared.



Mr. SMID took the babes up to the hotel room and I got to sit in silence, again, listening to the music and crackling wood.

Fire dancing bright
Over rippling dark water
White, yellow, orange

Yes, I finally broke down and entered a Haiku for Leslie's Haiku Buckaroo contest. (As Jenn in Holland repeatedly asks "did you enter yet?")

Stares

They start in the middle of May.

People stare. Sometimes with open mouths.

Other times they nudge the person they are with, and either point or motion their chin in my direction. The other person joins in the stare.

Occasionally someone will smile. Mostly it is a look of disconnect. As if they can't understand what I am doing.

Only once in a blue moon will someone actually say it.

"Nice hat."

I border on obsessive about wearing hats from late spring through early fall. I live in fear of sunburns and since I insist my children wear hats, I do the same.

So I asked the brood to help model some of my favorites (note the use of the word some).

A hat that I can roll up (a mere $15 on sale at a chi-chi store).

The reverse of above hat so really two hats for $7.50 each!

Another $15 find at the same store. It feels like it was made from burlap bags.

I just love the huge brim on this one. And for some reason it gets ALOT of stares.

When I wear this one, a colleague comments "Oh, you've got your church hat on."

Much to my patient husband's chagrin I have lost count of the number of hats I own. There are a fair number of caps in this mix as well including one with the Cat in the Hat and another from an awesome bar in St. Louis.

So I walk proud in this northern city with my big, ol' sun hats. When I walk through Chinatown I'll see a few women walking under paper parasols. We give each other knowing smiles.

We won't have nearly as many wrinkles.

Entrepreneurs

For several weeks the boys have been planning a lemonade stand. This is a complicated business endeavour since we live on a state highway which means stopping is illegal. Our driveway is very short so folks can't pull into it.

But why should logistics hinder a dream of owning a business? Especially when the investor doesn't ask for his money back.

Then there is the time of day they insisted on setting up their stand. 9:00 on a Sunday morning is actually a quiet time on our street/highway. And who wants to drink lemonade at 9:00am?

Apparently one of our town leaders. The chair of the town Democratic party pulled up in his big car before I got the lemonade in the fancy glass pitcher and asked for a cup. He handed the boys $6 and told them to keep the change.

Then there was the guy who jumped out of his car, asked for 2 cups and gave the boys a $10. AND TOLD THEM TO KEEP THE CHANGE! Of course, the boys don't really know how much they just scored. One starts to decorate a tip jar. I told him to stop since they had just received a $9 tip!

So in the end they sold about 10 cups of lemonade in 2 hours. They earned over $20 because nearly everyone handed them more than 50 cents and told them to keep the change.

Thanks to everyone who made two little boys successful business men.

Creative

She's leaving

Yup. Jenn is leaving China this week.



And if you haven't clicked Heart to Heart Talk over on the right, you should. And spend an hour going through her photographs. They alone will make you wish you could live Jenn's life.


Jenn has spent the last 10 months on a Fullbright Scholarship studying women and work. From the about section of her blog she explains, "My one sentence topic description is 'how rapid economic development and reemerging traditional cultural beliefs are currently affecting women’s work.'"

Yes. She is a smart as she sounds. But she isn't one of these people who grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her life experience is varied and textured. It gives her a perspective few of us are capable of having.

But the most exciting thing for me? I get to give her a hug when she returns.

While we worked in the same office for more than a year, we didn't really know each other. Before she left the country she gave me some blogging tutorials. But our friendship really bloomed over this near-year. And while I am sad that she won't be in China for now, I'm glad to have her back.

Because maybe she'll give me some photo tutorials.

Ceremony

I was invited to a ceremony at a middle school in a city neighborhood that has seen its share of gun violence.

There were police officers in dress uniforms, cadets handing out programs and proud families clutching digital cameras. In the front row of the tiny auditorium, little boys in polo shirts and khaki pants sat next to their mothers while television cameras set up in the back.

I was invited to attend the pining ceremony for a Sergeant Detective who had been promoted to Deputy Superintendent.

He is unique in the oldest police force in the country for a variety of reasons.

He is an African-American male with a very high rank in a police department in a city not exactly known for easy race relations.

He is openly gay.

His name is Norm.

Of the three, I think the last one is the most difficult.

I arrived in the auditorium 15 minutes before the ceremony. Seven other officers were also being pinned so the room was filling up. But there was a group of men in the middle in various outfits. Some had on street uniforms, others were in street clothes. But they all had guns and badges. They all were fit, even large chested, and looked like they could take down a suspect in seconds.

So when a new fellow yelled a greeting from the aisle there was none of the standard, guttural "hey" with a stilted hand shake like I saw else where in the room.

No, it was full-on hugs. The newcomers were greeted with "Hey there!" with a tad bit of, yes, swish. Outfits were complimented. Weights, hair, and yes, shoes were commended. These men were out of the closet, in the force and proud that one of theirs was recognized for his hard work on behalf of the citizens of his city.

When the new Deputy Superintendent was pinned by his mother with the Mayor and Commissioner of Police watching, he got the loudest cheers of all. Those men were beaming. People around us smiled. There were hearty applause from the other officers in the room. This was a reason to be proud.

And I was.

There was a circus in the botanical garden

Ever since Brian was sent to Circus Smirkus on last year's Fetch with Ruff Ruffman I have wanted to go see this. It's essentially a summer camp of older high school kids who learn circus skills and perform under a big tent. No animals. Just lots of acrobatics, clowning, juggling and general merriment.

My favorite was these huge pieces of fabric. The kids (really the oldest looked 17) climbed up, hung upside down and at one point, intricately wrapped themselves then dropped quickly to the ground. They had somehow created knots to stop their falls.

If I was one of their mothers, I would've had a heart attack on the spot. Not sure I would let my kids run off to join the circus.

And who did I inflict the joys of a hot circus tent on a Saturday afternoon? My college friend of nearly 20 years (we co-hosted a 3am-6am Friday morning radio show our senior year generally after a night of dancing). She is also one of my son's godmother and truly game for anything.

The other amazing part of the day was discovering the location of the circus was a botanical garden. I had never heard of the place and we were all pleasantly surprised at the gardens, old buildings and creative play spaces.

It was an extra bonus to a lovely day.

Tiny

A porcelain doll head found in our backyard.

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

Wandering weekend

We went away last weekend to another state. We visited one of the smallest beaches in that state.

Little lady sang on the beach.

The men "experimented" with a piece of drift wood.

At a wonderful museum about shipping, boats and the sea, they watched a play about whaling ships. We learned in the 18th century some sailors were as young as 7 years old.

Hmmm.... that's how old a set of twins will be next month.

From a little shuttle boat we could see beautiful ships.

Oh, and we even sidled up to the bar of the local pizza shop for a pepperoni pie. (And when the food arrived, the boys' caps came off. I assure you.)

We did go in a rowboat. The big, strong rugby player took on the task of rowing a boat with the four of us. Of course, I'm not sure what made us think taking two tornadoes, errr boys, in a row boat with a 3-year-old was a good idea. She was perfect and sat motionless the entire time. I'm still amazed one of the lads didn't go overboard.

But just like we had to do on the (two) horse open sleigh in January, we sang "Row Row Row Your Boat" causing the sailors on one boat to exclaim:

"You are the happiest boat on the river."

And in spite of our anxiety about ending up in the river, we were indeed the happiest boat on the river.

Two weeks is too long

My boys are BACK! Oh and how I missed them.



[The above clip is so completely, over-the-top that it has to be funny. Horrifyingly funny.]

Now keep in mind I TiVo so I'm a day late. But did you hear Mr. Stewart's rage that we can't expect the Iraqi Congress to meet in August because it is too hot? He asked why we expect OUR TROOPS to be there if it is too hot the Iraqi politicians. Unfortunately the rage part is cut off from the link but just know, it was funny.

Funny in a sad, pitiful, who-the-hell-voted-for-this-*sshole way.

Anyone who reads my blog willing to admit to voting for the President?

Schmoozer

In the spirit of full disclosure, I am a registered lobbyist. Yup, in the same profession as Jack Abramoff. I've even been known to start my part of a meeting by donning a fedora, just for the laugh.

But before you start slinging rotten food at me (or your computer screen), I am a registered lobbyist in the Commonwealth where I work for a non-profit organization that supports community economic development through affordable housing, small business development and asset development. I spent the bulk of today at a legislative hearing about affordable housing. I ran into people I knew, introduced them to each other, met new people and listened to nearly five hours of testimony. Some of the testimony was heartbreaking. Elders, adults with disabilities and low-income mothers talked of their fears that government subsidized buildings might start renting at market rate, effectively forcing them into nursing homes, out-of-state or into shelters.

That is one definition of a schmoozer.

But now this has some cache since I now have been bestowed THIS!

Jenn, lovely, lovely Jenn, has given me the Official Schmooze Bicep button. I could not be more honored. Especially after reading this:

Schmoozing is the natural ability “to converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection.” Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship.

Yes, dear readers, I was built for schmooze. But not for gaining an advantage. Simply to make connections.

So now I get to pass this along (see these are the things I like to pass along - an award with a pretty, err, forceful button). My top schmoozers are:

Gunfighter - this man oozes schmooze and coming from me this is a huge compliment! He definitely embodies the spirit of bringing people together.

Soodz - she was one of the first folks to pay attention to me. She was also my first hostess for the Blog Exchange (which is sadly taking a break this month. Boo-hoo).

Jodifur - she set the bar really high for Blog Exchange host. She actually forwarded to me every single comment left on her blog from my piece. She also never let's a comment go without a reply and the ensuing conversations are funny and thoughtful.

The Real Life Drama Queen - she. simply. rocks. My trail is definitely happier after she has strutted on by. And as a fag hag, I just love a drama queen.

Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting - she not only chats it up with me, she actually met me in person. That gets a gold star.

And I had every intention of giving one to this blogger but Mz. Jenn had to jump in and add her after the fact so while I hate giving people awards they already have, she's too good not to get it twice.

Twas Brillig - First of all the name is just awesome. Secondly she is one of those "popular" blog kids who still finds time to visit those of us hanging out in the science labs (or political science in my case). How popular is she? She got 28 comments (I was one of them) when she complained that her site was broken. Twenty-eight.

Now go forth and schmooze! Pass along to as many, or few, as you want.

A Fear

We were all enjoying an evening in another town's municipal pool, the guests of beloved friends. I offered to take the oldest kids (my two boys and my friend's eldest) to the bathrooms.

I have struggled with what to do when my nearly 7-year-old boys need to relieve themselves. They are coming to the age where dragging them into the women's room is embarrassing for them. Once we had to use a women's room inside a locker room and, well, the boys got an eyeful much to all of our embarrassment.

But then I live in fear that someone will hurt my children and I won't be there to stop it. I know that children are more likely to be hurt by someone they know then a boogie man lurking in a public bathroom. But I also know they can be hurt by someone their own age.

So when one of my boys ran sobbing out of the bathroom with dirt on his chest, I thought I would vomit. I wrapped him in a towel as he heaved his tears.

When I was 6 or 7 years old I was invited outside to play by a neighborhood girl. A year older than me, my parents had known her parents for years and didn't think anything of her offer to play. She took me to the backyard of a third kid, a boy older than both of us. All I remember is my underwear was off and he is touching me with his dirt covered finger. Nothing else happened. But the only other thing I remember is crying in my family room with my parents.

"What happened?"

"I slipped and hit my head!"

"No one pushed you?"

"No."

"No one scared you?"

"No. I just slipped in a really big puddle on the floor."

The lump started to appear off of his forehead. It was big so now I had other concerns to worry about.

I can deal with those.

***

I can honestly say that the account described above is the only time someone inappropriately touched me as a child. I have dear friends that have dealt with much, much worse. I am also not an expert on these issues so please, if you are dealing with trauma from abuse, or worried about a child you care about, please seek out professional help. If you have concerns for a child's immediate safety, call the police.

For more information about child abuse, visit Prevent Child Abuse America for an organization in your state. Information for adult survivors of childhood abuse can be found at Adult Survivors of Child Abuse.

Crossing the line

I read about them with envy. People meet, talk, laugh and comment how wonderful it was.

Actually seeing someone from the blogosphere live and in person.

Now Ambassador and Jenn don't count. I knew them before I started to blog (in the Ambassador's case before email became a regular part of people's lives. Yes youngsters, a really, really, really long time ago).

But I was a bit paralyzed with "what if". What if the person turned out to be someone that I didn't like? What if they weren't who they seemed (to me) on their blog? And then there are always those ax-murderer, identity-stealing, thug-like fears.

So meeting Alex Elliot of Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting was great for several reasons. She didn't want my credit card information and wasn't a jerk.

Now dear readers who have yet to meet her, she is wonderful. Funny, bright and truly one of the kindest parents. Period. I also got to meet OS and YS and according to her OS wasn't in his best mood. Now, if that wasn't sterling behavior, that kid must glow when he is behaving. He was great and YS just lapped it up when my daughter rubbed his head. Which is good because she did it often.

Those of you going to Blogher at the end of the month, go find Alex E. She'll be there. And I'll be a little less envious since I've already met her. Plus we've already mentioned the next place to meet up.

But this one won't allow food inside.

Shadows

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

Taking over

Shhh..... don't tell anyone but this isn't your regular hostess.

It's the tooth fairy. I've decided to jump on to let you know that one of the boys lost a tooth this morning. It was funny because in the car he told his mother and brother that I have a huge microphone that hangs in the sky below my office. I listen in to find out who has lost a tooth.

He couldn't be more wrong.

I'm a FAIRY. It is all magic. And also so much more manageable. Sure, I have to do this every day, 365 days a year without a break. Those dudes - the one up North and bunny - have it so easy. One crazy day and they've got the rest of the year off. Santa has all those elves make the toys while he's off "strategizing" and rabbit threatens all the other rabbits to work on the eggs. Who do you think makes all those "lucky" rabbit feet key chains?

"You not gonna work fer me? I'm cutting off this foot. But first I'll dye it, and let you pick the color out. Oh, now you wanna work for me?"

But back to me and my magic. You see I already knew his tooth would come out this morning. I'll collect it and add it to all the others. Do you know what I do with the teeth? I grind them up and turn them into fairy dust.

Because what could be more magical than children's teeth? They still have the first laughter, words and kisses in them.

That's magic.

***

I was being nosy and reading some of those blogs she has listed over on the right. I saw that The Ambassador wrote up his list of Eight Interesting Things about Himself. He is interesting. I can attest that his baby teeth were very magical.

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 .