lost

We were late arriving, as per usual. We were supposed to line up at the parade staging area by 8:00, but we were pushing 8:15 by the time I finally found a parking space. I quickly noted the cross street, then gathered just the bare essentials before locking the car and hurrying out. Water bottles, sunscreen, camera, $20. Did I grab the phone?

The parade was fun, we waited around for a long time, but once we got to marching, we were resplendent.

Afterwards, we walked over to the festival for some freebies and entertainment, and then we grabbed Subway and gathered ourselves to head back to the car.

What was that cross street? Oh yeah, it was Commercial Ave. Right? Or was it Industrial… it was something businessy sounding, I had made a mental note of that fact. Imperial isn’t businessy sounding, is it? Shit.

We walked the area, I kept the kids chatting although they were tired and getting impatient. I scanned the blocks for a familiar landmark; something I’d remember having walked past in our mad dash that morning. All of the parade foot traffic had cleared out; gone were the police on every corner and the festive, welcoming buzz of downtown. The only action on these streets was that of the misfortunate or misguided.

The kids figured out that we were lost. They were annoyed. I was getting nervous. They noticed. I couldn’t believe that I did not have my fucking phone.

The blocks were long and peppered with sleeping figures under blankets, boisterous and staggering groups, and industrious cart-weilding entrepreneurs. At each intersection, I tried to scan my addled sense of direction to try and gauge which way we should try next. There were commercial properties on each block, so we couldn’t try shortcuts or pass throughs. It was hot.

I felt so conspicuous. So white.

When our trek led us toward a small group gathered on a sidewalk, I wanted to cross to the other side of the street. But I also wanted to show my children that just because people are destitute, we should not assume that they are bad. We passed the group, and an outburst of laughter made me jump. Shit.

My girl was the one who finally recognized a stoop from quite some distance, she remembered that she had used those steps to sit and tie her shoe. It seemed like the wrong direction, but she was adamant enough to convince us to head that way. We cheered when we saw our car, and I was flooded with relief to lock us safely inside. The sitting was nice, too. And the a/c.

The whole ordeal probably lasted 20 minutes, but it has stayed with me.

I’ve always bought in to the Gavin de Becker philosophy of trusting your instincts as a parent. From Amazon: “As (de Becker) emphatically states in Protecting the Gift, much of this knowledge is already hard-wired in the form of intuition: ‘This natural ability is deep, brilliant, powerful. Nature's greatest accomplishment, the human brain, is stunningly efficient when its host is at risk, but when one's child is at risk, it moves to a whole new level.’ The trick, he stresses, is trusting and acting on intuition.”

Did I trust and act on my intuition on that hot January morning? What should I have done differently? Was that urge I had to cross the street my intuition warning me of danger, or merely striking embarrassment at the dumbass maneuvers I had made to get us into this predicament? Was it even a predicament? We lost our car, on a Saturday morning, in the commercial district of downtown San Diego. These are not the streets of Calcutta or the gang riddled avenues of south central. Why do we – why did I – fear the people on the street? What did my actions and reactions, albeit unspoken, say to my children? My kids, who yesterday spent the better part of 10 minutes describing a kid they wanted me to remember, including details about his clothes, his voice, his shoes, and his demeanor, never once mentioning the color of his skin?

What would it say to the dude we were marching for on that day?

Who am I?

“Who am I?” is one of the big questions in life, right along with “why are we here?”, “what is the purpose of life?” etc.

“Who am I” is a question I find myself asking often lately.

But I’m not talking philosophy or spirituality here -- I’m taking literally.

I’m in need of the answer, often quickly, because I’m on the phone, or in mid-conversation, or filling out some type of idiotic official form.

Who am I, and while we’re at it, what’s my address?

You see, my identity is fragmented at best right now. My legal name was changed with my signature on my marriage license, back in March, and when it finally arrived here in May I managed to change it at the loony bin social security administration office, but ended up in the hospital and then on bedrest before my appointment at the DMV, so these two primary forms of identification do not match. Unfortunately for me, it’s the ID without the photo that’s up to date, which helps very little when I want to prove to someone that the new name matches my old face.

I’m my former name at the hospital, doctor’s office, on my drivers license, passport, and on most of my credit cards. In addition my water, electric, cable, and other utility bills sport my former name. My new name appears on my business cards, my work pay stubs, my 401k, as well on a single credit card that includes a photo, at the elementary school my daughter attends, and on a few new bills.

I’m selling my condo using my new name, but just ran into a snag when I realized my bank still has all my former information. Getting this squared away (from bed) required two letters from me, one letter from them, and three phone calls, but they say it’s done. I’m officially the new me -- at least there.

You’d think that all this rest in bed would afford me time to straighten this all out, but people want to see PROOF of the name change, and they just don’t seem to be willing to come by to visit.

I know that this, like being able to leave the house, will all work itself out in time, but time is moving about as fast as my kids do when it’s time to brush and floss.

Yards and Yards

We had a neighborhood yard sale on Saturday. Also known as a tag sale, a garage sale, and in Far West Texas, a carport sale. All the houses on our dead end street put their crap wares out for the taking.

It was very busy and very festive. (Me, I just sat on the steps and read the paper.)

You know what they say about Yard Sales. Something for everyone.

At our house? Mistah sold books.
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Lots of books.

Tons of books.

Miles of books.

He also made a lot of friends. He gave a guy he knows a beer from our keg (it was a very festive day), and he gave an older woman he picked up met a seat in our Westy. Wait a minute . . .

. . . apparently he also gave her a free hot dog.

Our neighbor Ron was selling a giant mirror. You know how that works. Makes the whole street look bigger.

And oh, the fun you can have . . .

. . . taking ass-backwards photos.

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Later in the day our friend Jill organized the books into 2 neat columns.

Because that's what Jill has to do. Make order out of chaos.

The charcoal grill was roaring, blowing smoke everywhere, Mister Dibble protected himself from the elements, and we all had a grand time.

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Because you know what they say about Yard Sales.

There's something for everyone.

Weekend 3-Way: One More Time.....

When in doubt, or more accurately, when nothing new emerges in one's poor addled little brain, go with what works, I always say. So. For this weekend's 3-way, again:

Answer the following using the first letter of your pet's first name, then use all the words in a paragraph. Since I don't have a pet, I'll use my first pet, our beloved Yobo. Strike that. Y's are impossible. I'll use our second pet, the entirely unbeloved Bogey.

Ellie:
4 Letter Word: Boob
Vehicle: Bulldozer
Movie: Brokeback Mountain
City: Boise
Boy Name: Ben
Girl Name: Bertha
Occupation: Boom Operator
Something you wear: Brassiere
Food: Baba ghanoush
Something found in the bathroom: Bandaid
Reason for being late: Bloody nose
Something you shout: Bombs Away!

Bertha was in Boise, trying to get to her job as a boom operator on the set of Brokeback Mountain. How she loved that job. How she loved her poor gay cowpoke boyfriend. Wyoming is far from Boise, though, and she was running late. And running she was. Unfortunately, without her brassiere, so her boobs were flying. And she had blisters and no bandaids. But fortunately for her, she did have pita chips, olives and baba ghanoush to assuage her hunger. When she finally got to the set, she found Ben on his bulldozer, digging up the side of a mountain. Strangely, Ben was bulldozing with a very obvious and disgusting bloody nose. "Ben!" she cried. "What gives?!" His obtuse reply: "Bombs Away!"

Jacquie

4 Letter Word: Moan
Vehicle: Mercedes
Movie: Moonstruck
City: Montreal
Boy Name: Martin
Girl Name: Miranda
Occupation: Mall cop
Something you wear: Mumu
Food: Marmalade
Something found in the bathroom: Moisturizer
Reason for being late: Mechanical difficulties
Something you shout: More!

Martin was moaning about his dry kneecaps, he was angry with Miranda for taking off to Montreal with his special moisturizer tucked into the pocket of her mumu. He sent an evil wish to the universe that her mercedes would have mechanical difficulties. He chose the long pants version of his spiffy Mall cop uniform to hide his imperfection. The minute she called to check in, he demanded that she either return right away, or buy him MORE! At least she wasn’t home to make fun of him for planning to watch Moonstruck yet again that night. When his shift ended, he headed home for a nice, quiet evening of marmalade toast and Cher.

Beth:
4 Letter Word: Shit
Vehicle: Speedboat
Movie: Sex in the City
City: Seattle
Boy Name: Sam
Girl Name: Salma
Occupation: Sunday school teacher
Something you wear: Sunglasses
Food: Salad
Something found in the bathroom: Soap
Reason for being late: Sand storm
Something you shout: Salud!

Salma had always dreamed of being a Sunday school teacher. Her family thought that it was an impossible dream, seeing as she came from the sin-city of Seattle, wore sluty sunglasses, and dated a low-life con artist named Sam. But Salma was determined; she was not going to take any more of her family's shit. She threw away all three of her copies of Sex in the City, the movie, used her last bar of soap to clean out her own mouth, and had Sam race his speedboat right through the sand storm and onto the shore close to the church. Salma entered that Sunday school classroom and took charge. She taught those kids about the little white wafer and the wine, and made sure to emphasize that they always finish their dainty sip with a hearty Salud!

bad words

The problem boils down to simple facts: I am immature, and I find bad words funny. I have a potty mouth, I can’t seem to help it. For the most part, I am able to internalize my bad words at times when it would be inappropriate to use them. Thinking them is almost as good.

My girl did once ask me why there were so many idiots on the road when I was driving. It’s an excellent question, and I must be a good role model because she did not ask why there were so many motherfuckers.

I vividly recall the first time I heard my sainted mother drop the f-bomb. I think I was in college; I was not a wee pup. She was telling a story –on videotape - about a friend who always asked another of their friends to dance before he asked her. So one time when he got around to asking her, she turned to him and said: “fuck off!” God, I love that woman.

My parents were not prudish about language, but there were certain unspoken guidelines about what was or was not okay to say or to hear. Although we were not allowed to say “shut up” (we said “up-shut backwards”), we heard other words in movies and songs that some might consider much juicier. But just because we were allowed to watch Richard Pryor Live, and even picked up some of his catch phrases (bigger than a peanut!), we didn't have to be told that most of the language was unfit for repetition.

I try to follow reasonable guidelines when it comes to choosing media content suitable for my own children. It’s a conversation we have quite frequently with our 10 year old hip-hop aficionado. He tried to talk me into a new Black Eyed Peas song last night, but after Fergie sang the word “shit” 4 times during the 30 second itunes preview, I had to balk. He argues that just because he hears it, he will not use the word, and I am swayed because it’s a logical argument. I’ve let him download other so-called “clean” songs that are anything but if you listen between the lines. But I’m supposed to say no to outright foul language, right?

There are words I consider much worse than shit that I don't want my kids to say. I can't stand for them to say hate, or stupid, or ugly in a mean way. Ultimately, it's the intent behind the word that makes it bad. If you ask the kids, they will tell you that my favorite word is "okay" and my least favorite word is "wait".

But I am a potty mouth, and the kids are on to me. I am ashamed to admit that they’ve heard mommy’s bad words way too often. I’m asking them to do as I say, not as I do; while simultantiously negating any credibility to the argument that one should not use bad words when I clearly find them so entertaining. My failure is longstanding, it has been a force for reckoning ever since the kids were little and bad words weren’t really that bad. Like crap. One day when my boy was a preschooler, he got startled and said “That scared the crab out of me!” I asked where he had heard that expression, and he said Daddy had said it when he (boy) tried to close the toilet while he (daddy) was peeing. Shortly after that conversation, the boy saw a pile of something on the floor of my car and asked: “Who crapped in the car?” Naturally, I cracked up.

The other night I went out for a night of idiocy, and my husband planned a movie night with the kids. We had both Kit Kittredge and Wall-e on the DVR. Granted, these are not any 10 year old hip hop star’s first choice for movies, but we knew he’d get sucked in to Wall-E and we made ominous promises about war and the great depression to up the appeal of Kit Kittredge. Obviously, they watched Hancock. My girl reported: “even the kids used bad words!” This led to a discussion about whether or not I would let them be in a bad word movie, (Déjà vu). They asked if they would be allowed to star in the bad word movie if all of the bad words that anyone said were beeped out. I became temporarily entwined in an asinine conversation before I woke up and said Yes, of course they could star in the bad word movie if all the bad words than anyone said on the entire lot were replaced with resounding beeps.

Later that day, we were out driving among the idiots when someone started to back up into the place that we happened to be occupying. I hit the horn, which is always a thrill (bonus: also drowns out any rogue bad words). My girl remarked that it had been a long time since she’d heard me “ring” the horn. I corrected: you heard me “beep” the horn, honey. My boy asked: “did you say a bad word?”

The bedrest survival kit

So I’ve been home on bedrest for 10 days now, and I’ve settled into a semi-regular daily routine.

It changes a bit depending on if the girls are here or not, but it more or less remains the same. (It’s hard to have a lot of variety when you’re in the same bed in the same room, day after day.

But I’m adapting, and here are a few of the things that are getting me through:



The cool view of the orange tree that I have from my bed.

The two laptops that keep me plugged into the world and working full time (so that I stay both solvent and sane), along with the completely cool, over-the-bed, hospital-style table that holds the laptops (or papers, or bills, or whatever I'm working on).

Good books (no need to say more).

My eco-friendly, swiss-engineered water bottle (thanks, kendra), that I never really used before, but that I can't imagine living without now. Oh, and the super comfy fuzzy blanket that it is resting on in this photo (thanks, mom).

My iphone (thanks, T) that let's me talk, text, email, check the web, AND listen to my favorite tunes.

often, while lying on this very chaise lounge, which sits a few feet outside the bedroom sliding glass door, beckoning me each afternoon the sun is shining.

.

Of course there is also a lot that needs to be said about all the people who are helping me through, but that's a post for another day...

Wine and Chickens

Last weekend we went to a wine fest in North Stonington, CT.

Yum. Wine.

It was a great day. Everywhere you looked the peeps were drinking the wine.

Including our very specifically motley crew.

A festival dedicated solely to wine.

How great is that?

Elizabeth loves wine. Clearly. The more glasses the better.

So does Tracey. And so do I.

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And so does Mister Dibble.

I only had to kick Mister Dibble's ass once.

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The people-watching was great.

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Riveting.

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Especially when Mister Man-Skirt went by.

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At the wine fest, Chris -- our vineyard friend, and the reason we all were there -- was our hard-working host . . .

. . . and then back at the ranch farm Dibble house Air Stream, Mister Dibble and the lovely Elizabeth were.

Hsin really loved the Air Stream. Oh, 'scuze us, Hsin.

NoSto is famous for its chickens . . .

.

. . . and for Elizabeth, its world-famous chicken-whisperer.

Tracey and Katie? They love the chickens.

Really, really love them.

And Elizabeth? She just loves life..

What's not to love?

Interesting

I'm always on the lookout for Something Interesting, so I can blog about it.

I've usually got at least a few gems stored away in the dark, cobwebbed recesses of my mind from which I can eke out a little story. But sometimes those recesses are empty, and all I can hear in there is the echo of my own hopeful voice.

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hellloooooo?

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When that happens, I have to kick it up to the next level, putting myself on alert for Anything Interesting to write about.

This is one of those times.

Inspired during my shower this morning, I toyed with the idea of writing about the spot on my knee that I always miss with the razor. But in saying those few words, the story has been all but told! So all day today I have been on heightened alert, thinking of stories from my childhood, ways to poke fun at my children or friends, random experiences in the retail world, whatever.

Something Interesting.

How about this:

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Aoccdrnig to a reersach peapr at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deson't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by it slef but the wrod as a wlohe.

Waht do you tihnk aobut taht?

.

If this is true, why can I so often see nothing but a misplaced apostrophe when reading someone else's writing? My life would be more calm and zenlike if my brain would just place it correctly. Interesting.

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Want to try something Interesting? You have to click through to other webpages, but it's worth it. The first time I experienced this, I was in a lecture hall with about 300 other graduate students. Here's what you do:

The link below will take you to a page where you will be able to view a short video clip. After you read these directions, go to the page and start the clip.

In the movie, you will see a group of people wearing black or white shirts that are playing with two balls. Your task is to count how many times the ball is passed by those wearing white shirts. That's it. Do not play the video more than once, just count the number of passes by the people in white shirts, and jot your number down, then come back here for step 2.

Remember, count only the passes of the ball by those wearing white.

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When you are ready, click here to start the movie.

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Welcome back! Got your number? Okay, proceed to step two. Then come back again. I miss you already.

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The human brain? In.Ter.Est.Ing. No?

Until the cows come home

Have you herd? The cows have come home, or to my home town anyway.

Do you remember those crazy cows I met while in Costa Rica last summer? Well they’re now just up the road, in La Jolla. How cool is that?

Take a look:

Black and white is always an appropriate fashion statement.

All this beefcake needs is a moostach

dung-arees

a place of udder delight

Moo York City? Mooami Beach?

Moo-ro

cow-moflage

The daily moos


Where's the beef?

Bull's eye

Cowai'i