sunny side up

love, american style

We spent the 4th of July at the home of some friends with a really groovy house.  The backside rests on a canyon, and beyond that one can see the ocean.  They house is made for entertaining: a large deck in the back with lots of ways to sit or lie down and enjoy the view.  That, of course, means pillows abound. 

While the grownups enjoyed their mango martinis the kids played.  Kai was the only boy among several girls.  Soon enough, two of the 5-year-olds put on cheerleader costumes and frolicked about, shaking their little hips and pompoms. At one point we looked over at Kai, who found himself engaged in a giggly pillow fight with the cheerleaders.  This led Bell to exclaim something to the effect of "You're keeping the dream alive, Man!" 

Moments later (when the last feather settled on the deck), the two girls reclined on a cushy futon, eating chips.  As they lay there, they plaintively asked Kai to be their friend.  He ignored them at first--perhaps he was speechless, perhaps he was teasing.

But after a few cries of "Please, Kai?" he finally threw them a bone: "Wuuuuuuuuht-evah!"

stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ever since we returned from our vacation last month, my days seem to have become lost to activities other than blogging.  For one thing, the end of the kids' school years involved a lot of activities meant to celebrate the fact that it was the end of the year--events completely lacking educational merit, such as parties, half-days, days off, field trips, assemblies, and just plain old movie-watching in class. This is what we're paying for?  If I had a dime for every time one of the kids said, "Guess what we got to watch at school today?", I'd probably have, like, two dollars. Apparently, once standardized testing was over at Jade's school, administrators and/or teachers didn't seem to care whether the students learned anything else.  At Kai's school, which was forced to close down because the school district wanted the building back (even though it has no plans to actually use it), I guess they just figured the kids wouldn't complain if they were made to watch "Finding Nemo" instead of doing math pages.

Not only was it a busy end-of-school year, but Bell was out of town for a stretch during the same week I had to start teaching summer school, which meant that our poor children were stuck with me as their drill sergeant.  I'm not normally dedicated to strict punctuality, but when I have to get two kids to different locations and myself to another, their mornings are dictated by the timer.  As in: "I'm putting the timer on so you have 16 minutes to eat breakfast. When the timer goes off, put your plates in the dishwasher and move on to brushing your teeth."  Doesn't that makes you wish you were a kid all over again, only this time with me as your parent?

Kai's school held a good old-fashioned carnival after graduation, complete with a dunk tank but lacking the $1 kissing booth.  (That's not a complaint.)  The festivities included a cakewalk, and I was perhaps foolishly hopeful that we could win back the cake Jade and I had made--an homage to the carnivals of yore, what with the old-fashioned mini-clown heads and balloon statuettes, and the extra thick buttermilk frosting and brightly colored fondant balls encircling the concoction.  (I found the cake recipe in Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything," which, if you own only one really thick book with a bright yellow cover and a kickass recipe for Chicken Adobo, this should be it.) Sadly, I have no picture of our masterpiece to share with you because just as I was loading the cake before we had to leave, I was simultaneously supervising Kai in the shower and trying to get myself ready when suddenly Ben the Mailman rang at the front gate (which is actually a very heavy door with an awesome little door out of which one can poke one's head whenever visitors come demanding to see The Wizard).  I buzzed him into the courtyard so that he could deliver a birthday package to Jade, but then he also wanted to chat away. (He was not interested in The Wizard.)  He stood in the courtyard area with the the front gate open, so I had to stand with the front door (i.e., the real one, leading into the house) slightly ajar so I could hear Kai in case he busted his chin in the shower or needed help shaving. 

It was at this time that the very sneaky and equally svelte Lady Skittles of Huntington South made a run for it out the front door and, consequently, out the front gate and into the wild.  She is strictly and indoor cat since this here is coyote country, but she is forever trying to escape to freedom. In any event, there I was only half dressed and beginning to sweat all over again (since it was the day before the hottest bloody day I've ever experienced here, a whopping 97 degrees) when I had to participate in a wild goose--er, cat--chase all about the front and side yards,  I told Skittles that I did not have time for her feline chicanery, and apparently she did not have time for mine, either--my attempts to lure her out of the prickly forest of agave plants with a cat toy fell flat. She's been burned by that trick one too many times.  She kept moving deeper and deeper into the unreachable places, ignoring my sweating pleas, all because she knew I didn't have time for this.  I think she was determined to make time for this.  Eventually Ben the Mailman managed to scare her back my way, and she ran into the courtyard where she would at last be trapped once I shut the gate.  Immediately she realized her strategic error and turned to run out again. Experience had shown me that if I attempted to grab her she would slip away like a greased pig, so instead I body-slammed all nine lbs. (when wet) of her to slow her down long enough to shut the gate.

And that is why I didn't have time to take a picture of our clown cake. 

I was so hopeful that we could win the cake back, but it was not to be.  Instead, when Kai won a round of the cakewalk and got to choose from an array of store-bought numbers, he picked the biggest damn one he could possibly find: a sheet cake that serves 24, on top of which sat a little fake diploma and a little plastic graduation cap.  I had tried to discourage this choice because Bell was going to be away and what the hell were three of us going to do with a gigantic sheet cake anyway--eat eight pieces each for dinner?  Then I had the brilliant idea that I would remove the accessories and write in "Happy 10th Birthday, Jade!" because her birthday was forthcoming the following week. While I was busy patting myself on the back for my resourcefulness, she was working herself into a frenzy about the "insulting injustice" of it all.  Sigh. Talkiing her down was no cakewalk. But! We sure had fun at the carnival anyway.  And they didn't even serve beer.

At one point amidst all this activity I had to take time out to spend the better part of a beautiful Saturday in traffic school. That's right: eight hours plus an hour for lunch ripped from my life.  I will never get it back! The only other option was to give up two Friday nights for four hours each but come on, you do the math. What? 4+4=8? Oh.

Please stop shaking your head at me and saying "Poor fool! Why didn't you just do online traffic school?" Although San Diego County and Los Angeles County--and probably every other county in this great nation--allow its traffic violators to "attend" traffic school online, Orange County is a cruel dominatrix (and not in a good way).  Here we must physically show up on a Saturday morning and try to find parking before 7 a.m, then join hundreds of others in a long line in the hopes that we make it through security before 7:30 or we will be forced to come back another day.  Assuming success, we then get to sit in uncomfortable chairs in a smelly old courtroom while an (approximately) 85-year-old retired cop named Carl (from New York*) at once berates us and bores us. And we are not permitted to bring in any reading material or use our PDAs or laptops, and if we fall asleep (a likely scenario if, like me, you suffer from traffic-school-induced narcolepsy) we will be booted out and made to start the game over again.  They make traffic school so painful in Orange County that by the end of the day you beg for mercy and vow never to violate a traffic law again. I, for one, vow never ever to accidentally not see a "no U turn" sign again.

For your consideration: it took Carl 40 minutes to explain to the class how to sign in.  That's right, two-thirds of an hour devoted to finding our names on a list and signing the blank line next to said name. If our name didn't appear we were to write it in.  At first I thought Carl's instructions a bit excessive and it made me cranky to think of how it foreshadowed the rest of my day with Carl.  I was kind of annoyed with his patronizing tone; he was talking to us like we were a bunch of morons.  And then I realized: hey, these people ARE a bunch of morons.  For example, here are actual questions from the audience: "My name is misspelled on the sheet.  Should I sign my name with the typo or should I spell it how I normally do?"  "I'm Italian and my name is really long.  It won't fit on the line.  What should I do?" and "I can't find my name on the sheet. I looked twice and it's not there.  What should I do?"  And so on.  You can imagine my resentment at having to sit in that courtroom with a bunch of not-terribly-clever speeders, stop sign runners, red light ignorers --especially when my infraction was totally unintentional and, therefore, innocent.  It was so unfair. 

To make matters worse, Carl was using an exhibit made up of a poster board with a little hand-drawn picture of a car at a crosswalk and the word "Stop!"  My guess is that his grandchild made this for a health class project back in 1976.  Truly cringeworthy.

Bell went away again to teach at another seminar.  Although this one was local, he had to stay on campus with the other faculty and students, flinging me back into life as a single parent.  That week found me  trying to make the house slightly presentable since we would be hosting the a big party at our house for Bell and his conference attendees (all 50 or so of them).  I also had to buy Jade's birthday presents and plan her birthday meal (her favorite "twice chewed beef") as well as her birthday party with her friends.  Oh yeah, and I have a job I had to show up for.  Ultimately, all of these things came off without a hitch.  I was especially pleased that I could ice over what remained of that damned graduation cake and throw some sprinkles on it and it was ready to be served up to Bell's unsuspecting crew.  

Several students brought vodka (we did not provide liquor since we did not know who was or was not of legal drinking age) and one in particular brought Kai Vodka, which her father distills.  She put the bottle in our freezer.  The next day I had this troubling exchange with Kai:

"Mom, you know that vodka in the freezer?"

"Yeah."

"Was that straight vodka?"

"..?.."

Another troubling exchange: a bunch of kids (i.e, college and grad students) were sitting around our reading room passing books back and forth.  At one point, Jade entered the room and one of the guys told her that she reminded him of some chick in Mortal Kombat--someone who "kills a bunch of people and is really hot!" If you are that dude and you're reading this, please note, sir, that you shall never darken this doorstep again. Who tells a 10 year old she's really hot?

Speaking of telling someone she's really hot, the other day I was leaving for work when Kai looked up at me and said, "Hey mom! I like your . . . [and here he gives me a chin nod] short skirt!" It sort of made me want to put on a burka.

And finally, let it be noted in the annals of the history of this family that once again, I have taken a bullet for the team:  I took Kai to Chuck E. Cheese. You might expect that since I have two kids I've clocked in a lot of time at the Cheese shop.. Mais no.  Do you know how many other times I have been on the premises of Mr. Charles E. Cheese? Exactly one. And it was for but 30 minutes.  You see, when Jade was a kid I so detested the idea of Chuck E. Cheese, with all those children I didn't know running around in an overstimulated frenzy, leaving green boogers on everything they touched led me to make a personal commitment to stay away from that joint for as much and as long as possible.  Of course Jade would occasionally beg to go--usually after seeing a CEC commercial (damn you, television!)--and I would always reply, "How about when you're five?"  This satisfied her, gave her something to look forward to in her little life.  Happily--and I didn't expect this part--when she turned five I asked her if she wanted to go to CEC.  Her response? She crinkled her face and said, "No, that's for boys!"  Phew.  A bullet dodged.

This most recent trip, however, was triggered by an invitation from a new friend I really like and a bunch of kids from Kai's class.  How bad could it be?  I'll tell you.  Last year I took a bullet for the team when i agreed to bring Jade and her best friend to the American Girl Place in L.A. The very thought of all that pink made me twitch.  Fortunately, however, when we sat down for luncn, I quickly discovered something to make it all better. You see?  Jade had her doll at the table, Aly had her doll at the table, I had:

 

All better. 

(Incidentally, did you know that at American Girl Place the bathrooom stalls are equipped with a special doll holder so you don't have to set your doll on the pee-soaked floor? Have they not thought of everything?)

Anywho, Mr. Charles E. Cheese does not make available, so you can imagine the frazzling of my nerves,  with what seemed like thousands of children packed into the room screaming and running around on a summer's day, especially during that 15 minutes I could not find Kai.

I shall leave you with this: did you know that for the past month, every morning and every night, and even in the afternoon, Kai hums or sings the theme song from the original Star Wars over and over?  It's like he's got the soundtrack constantly playing in his head and he has to share it with everyone else.  Star Wars. Nothing but Star Wars.  Now it's stuck in my head, too.

A good day to you, sirs and madames.

____

*Unfortunately, this fact is significant in conveying the extreme suffering I endured, not because I have anything against New Yorkers per se, it's just that their accent makes my ears bleed.

10

  

Double digits. 

Hey, Internets: give it up for Jadey on her birthday!  She's a "10" in our eyes.

something strange is afoot

Seriously, what the hell?

it's the little things

I received the following in an email my spam filter failed to catch:

[Gentlemen: That was your last chance to move away from another tampon post.  Proceed at your own risk.]

Once again, the tampon PR professionals have managed to confound me.  At first I thought it was a joke because "mighty small" just doesn't seem like the right way to advertise something I rely on for mighty awesome absorbent properties. Indeed, it speaks to every young woman's fear of leakage.  Remember when you got your period how you'd say to your best friend, "Check me!" Then you'd walk in front of her and she'd look at your backside and give you the nod indicating all was clear?  I think that's where the term "I got your back" originated.

I've never really understood the logic of ob's line of product sizing: the teensiest one is "Regular" (but there is nothing regular about it. I'm sorry, but that thing is small to the point of uselessness); then we move up to "Super" (Got some flow?  That's just SUPER!); then "Super Plus" (which sounds like a clothes size for the ample); and finally you gotcher "Ultra," which is like driving a monster truck of absorbency up your canal.  The Ultra is The Big Kahuna of tampons, the Mount Everest for many novice bleeders. The Ultra is not for the faint of heart; it is reserved for Alpha Menstruators. 

As a veteran menstruator, I have come to see the Ultra as a hearty, reliable friend, always there for me when I open the medicine cabinet. Problem is, these Ultras?  They have, of late, been very difficult to find in the bricks-and-mortar operations.  And why is this--are women not bleeding heavily anymore? Or is it, as I suspect, all part of a (male) plot to downsize the tampon, a plot no doubt instigated by someone in the finance department who figured they could make more money by making the tampons so small they'd have to be changed every 15 minutes.  Let's see, fifteen times 24 hours a day, multiply that times five and... $$$.  Brilliant.

Recent trips to the drugstore for the Ultra proved fruitless with a disturbing frequency.  I called friends: "Did you happen to see any Ultras in Albertson's today?"  My own investigation revealed that where there had once been space on the shelf for Ultras, there was no more.  Not at the Walmarts, Target , Albertsons, Ralphs, Rite-Aid...what was happening here?  I contacted the company with an accusing query, an action unprecedented since the days when the late, great Today Contraceptive Sponge was pulled off the market. And, just as when I discovered that Sponge production had ceased, I immediately began to scour the grocery and drugstores in my neighborhood with the intent to buy up the remaining inventory. (Incidentally, with respect to the Sponge, I beat Elaine Benes to the punch.  Although the company that produced the Sponge officially ceased production in 1995, the Sponge disappeared from the shelves of stores in my San Francisco neighborhood as early as the fall of 1994.) It became a bit of an obsession with me, this trying to find the Ultras. I had a little map in my head of all the places it was no longer sold. Sure, the company responded to my inquiry with assurances that the Ultra was still on the market, but my hands-on investigation suggested otherwise: the Ultra was not available from any of my usual sources. Obviously the company is trying to confuse me with its doublespeak.

One night, I sunk to a new low.  I was supposed to meet My New Friend for her big birthday extravaganza. I was about, ohhhhh, an hour late to the party when I was still cruising the aisles for the elusive Ultra.  My cell phone rang; it was My New Friend.  "Where are you?  Everyone else is at the hotel having drinks," she said. 

"Oh, sorry.  Just . . . looking for Ultras."  I'm nothing if not brand loyal.

My New Friend's tipsy belittling of my project convinced me to give up the search for the evening, but I was back at it first thing the next day. And do you know what, Gentle Reader?  I finally found a store that still carries the goods-- the new CVS on El Camino! Giddy with delight upon my discovery, I bought up a big bag of megaboxes. Then another friend had to go and burst my bubble by reminding me that I'd probably hit menopause before I had the chance to deplete my supply.  

Gah! 

Ah, well.  Soon enough the Ultra will disappear from the shelves altogether, and I will sell the Ultra at exorbitant prices on the black market. World domination will be mine.

Mighty small minded of me, I know.
. 

big daddy

Happy Father's Day, Internets!

smoke and mirrors

Jade's 5th grade class had an assembly last week featuring a "parenting expert" talking to them about what happens when you don't make good choices in middle school.  In one exercise, the expert asked ten kids to come up to the front of the room.  On each of them she pinned an 8 1/2"x11" piece of paper on which was written "Self Respect" and  "Self Worth."  She then told the kids that she was going to read a list of bad acts, and after each one the kids should imagine how much, if any, of the paper they should rip off and throw to the floor if they committed one of these acts. Then they should tear accordingly.  Each piece torn away symbolized their self-respect and sense of self-worth. Get it?

The expert said, "You cheat on a test."  Everyone except one kid tore off a piece of the paper. That one kid looked around at the others and nodded his head and looked confused by their actions.  He stood confident that he would not tear anything off. This triggered snorts of laughter (okay, mostly from me), which confused the kid even more.  Apparently he thought all those people tearing paper were admitting to cheating on a test, so he was understandably disdainful of them. Once he understood the instructions, he was back on track.

"You get caught cheating on a test." Rip, rip.

"Your friend convinces you to steal something from a store." Rip, rip, rip. Little pieces fall away.

"You intentionally hurt a good friend even though you don't want to. You do it anyway." Some ripping. No BFD.

"You smoke a cigarette." Here is where the most violent ripping occurs, the biggest chunks of all, often with dramatic flourish.  Two kids take what remains of their paper (which is quite a lot) and throw it on the ground. One might have thought the expert had said, "You put kittens in holes in your front yard and run the lawn mower over them. Repeatedly."

Does that sound at all ridiculous to you?  Because I found it rather disturbing.  I mean sure, smoke too much and you increase your risk of medical problems, your mouth tastes rank and you get more wrinkles. But have we lost the ability to distinguish between unhealthy behavior and immoral or unethical behavior?  I would much rather hear that my kid experimented with cigarettes than with shoplifting or cheating or deliberately hurting her best friend (unless of course she stole the cigarettes or burned her friend's arm with them.  That would be bad.)  I just don't see how smoking one cigarette constitutes a moral transgression that deprives one of all sense of self-respect. 

Maybe I'm just being defensive.  Yes, I dabbled in cigarettes in the Burger King bathroom when I was in the fourth grade (but they were purchased fair and square from a vending machine, back when that was legal.  I was in Southern Virginny, after all).  Was I sneaking behind my parents' backs? Yes.  Did I behave immorrally? 

Please.  

Kids these days need to light(en) up.

10,000 kelos

Okay, okay, I know I'm behind on blogging, but I've been busy regrouping after my little vacation (which is to say I've been reading Tim Sandefur's latest manuscript and maintaining my tropical tan.  You wouldn't believe the work involved.)  I'm currently toying with a post about tampons, so while you are waiting for that please consider putting off getting your roots done for another week or skipping your metrosexual pedicure to donate to a good cause.  After all, this land is your land.

we are experiencing technical difficulties

Having a great time; wish you were here. I wanted to post pics but it's not working out. And what's with Twitter not letting me sign up?
Waiting for Kai to finish nap so we can ride flat waves. 150 steps away.

Aloha oe, you smell like poi.

here today, gone to maui

Kauai, actually.  Soon. Very very soon.

I'll attempt to moblog from my Blackberry Pearl. Or maybe I'll hop on the Twitter bandwagon.  That way, you can be right there with me as I vomit in a helicopter or attempt to pass as a local so I can check out library books. I will try my best to refrain from making lame jokes about getting lei-ed.

Be there. Aloha.