It Takes a Village

Right around this time last year, I ran into a friend at Costco who was on the hunt for gingerbread house kits. I jumped right on the bandwagon and followed him over to the presumed aisle, which we were chagrined to find empty. No big deal, I carried on with my quest for whatever other nonsense had brought me in on that day (bet you $5 it was wine, dog food, grape tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and rotisserie chicken because ALWAYS), but the seed was planted. I found one somewhere later that day, figuring it didn’t matter if it was a good kit or a bad kit, a big kit or a small kit; it’s gingerbread and therefore gross, but candy and frosting are fun. The kids made their house last year and I remember it being vaguely fun, I wasn’t really involved other than to clear off the table before and after, and take photos.

See?

Flash forward to this week, when I found myself perusing the holiday aisles of Target for work festivity related necessities, when I came upon this year’s selection of gingerbread house kits. There were three options: a single house kit, a set of two houses, and a village with four houses. The choice was easy! I’m all about the family activities these days. A village. How perfect! A house for everyone and everyone in her or his house. fun!

 Some of us read through the instructions and carefully prepared each piece for construction, then counted out candy so everyone had the same amount, and suggested time limits on use of the single bag of frosting.

Some of us dove right in, solving problems as they arose, making creative use of available resources.

Some of us missed the whole introduction because of Monday Night Football, and had their candy ration pillaged.

Some of us ate as we worked, taking equal inspiration from surrealism and sugar.

The bickering started out lighthearted; some people were having trouble sharing such limited resources and waiting for turns. There were accusations and name calling, reputations were called into question, voices were raised.

When we finally finished and I was scooping up sprinkles and scraping frosting from every imagineable surface, I felt grumpy about how everything ends up in a fight now, and how frustrating it is to try and plan even the briefest family activities when the inevitable mark of their ending is each of us going to our separate corners with slanderous thoughts about the others. Then one kid said to the other: “these are hilarious.” And the other said: “yeah, that was fun, thanks mom.” Then they walked off together.

 No one was mad, no one was even annoyed past the point where the next sentence started. I forget sometimes about how different teenagers are from the people I used to know. I've got to remember that they are more like the people I used to BE. Yikes.It was a good reminder to re-assess and re-calibrate my definition of quality family time.

It's a dysFUNctional village, but it's our village, after all.

Nine lives

This past Saturday was the annual OB Holiday Parade, a requisite holiday activity around these parts. It's the only parade that I've ever been to that I truly enjoy. That's because it doesn't start until 5:05 pm. Yes, it's a night parade -- with lights, and tipsy spectators, and float after marching softball team after surfboard-carrying squad. The grown ups have their cups and the kids their candy.

Post parade we headed back to my house, where the kids ate the myriad tiny candy canes they collected and the grown ups (may have) had another drink.  As Jacquie and Bill were getting ready to head home, we heard a desperate wail; a wail I knew intimately. It was my oldest, and she sounded hurt.

We dashed outside and I swear she said, through her sobs, "my foot got run over." Oh good god! Her foot? What was she even doing outside? Shit! But as she got closer she appeared to be walking as normal. She continued toward us, and we came to realize that she was saying "Lily got run over!" "Lily got run over!" Lily?!? Oh good god. No! Not Lily.

She led us down the sidewalk, a house or two away, and there on the sidewalk lying on her side was the poor dead kitty. I could scarcely believe it. Lily? Bad-ass, 10-year-old Lily? Lily who never roams too far from home and vehemently defends her territory? Lily who has slept with me for the past 10 years? Lily, my trusty companion who has purred her way through my two divorces, five moves, and child rearing of the last decade?

But wait, was it truly Lily? And was she really even dead? I mean, the markings were hers, and she wasn't in good shape, that was clear, but could she still be alive? I touched her, stroked her fur, she seemed to still be warm, she definitely wasn't stiff. But try as I might I couldn't find a heartbeat, nor detect any rise and fall of her chest.  My poor, poor kitty. My poor, poor kids. We were all out there, freaking out, mourning the loss of our beloved cat - me and my three girls, Jacquie and Bill and their girl. There was sobbing, sadness, and disbelief. I, unbelievably, although shaken up, was pretty calm -- not crying or losing it. That could come later. Jacquie was a voice of reason too.

We needed to get Lily home, she obviously needed a proper burial, so I ran home to grab a soft towel to wrap her in - happy for the action step. Once back onsite, I picked the poor girl up, for the last, short walk home. It was a sorry procession. Crying daughters and the dead feline.

Could it really be? I studied her face as I walked with her in my arms. She looked different, but death will do that. The shakti is gone, you're holding only a shell. But the kids weren't totally convinced either, they ran into my room to see if she might possibly be asleep on my bed, as is so often the case

The bad was empty.

I was almost to the glass slider that lead to the deck where I planned to leave Lily overnight, until we awoke, borrowed a shovel, and had a proper ceremony. I was gazing at her unmoving, inanimate face when I heard cheers of elation and sequels of joy. What the? 

My youngest had found Lily, very much alive, sleeping in my bedroom closet, as is often the case when there are loud visitors about.

Lily alive? Really? Well hallelujah, and praise the lord, and all of that come-back-from-the-dead jubilation shit!! This is amazing.

But, um, if dear Lily is dozing in the closest, whose dead cat am I currently holding?

The drama of what to do with this unknown dead cat was (almost) harder for me than the initial shock of seeing my dead kitty, but that is a story all of its own...

So there you have it, Lily goes on to live out whichever life of hers this is. The other kitty is on to the next.

May he/she warrior on.

Let It Shine

The other day I heard Mistah rattling around in what seemed like the dead of night. "Oh my God," I heard. I didn't think too much about it, though -- Mistah is known for rattling around in the dead of night. And I've learned to pretty much ignore any nocturnal sounds that don't involve a water glass falling and smashing into smithereens.

Because that happens regularly, too.

No, the other day it wasn't actually the dead of night during which the rattling was taking place, but dawn a-breaking. And the sun rising. And Mistah reacting to this:

And a few minutes later, to this:

And because he's Mistah, this:

And then it started getting good:

Really good:

It's all about the light, apparently, this photo-making process . . .

. . . the light shining on the mint (still) growing through the deck steps . . .

. . . the light shining on the (now indoor) ferns. . .

. . . the light shining on a still-red-leaved tree . . .

. . . isn't that cool?

And if we're really lucky, like we were last month, the light shining down from the sky:

Oh, hello Moonie.

Look how gorgeous you are, peeking out back there from our big tree.

Shine your light, baby.

there's sky in this one, too

Remember Thanksgiving? I think it was about 90 days ago. It's been a long damn week! We took a road trip over the holiday for both pleasure and family business. And turkey.

It was a whirlwind, and also a bit of a shit storm.
A whirlwind in a shitstorm sounds awful.
Shitwind.
Wouldn't you love to have shitwind blowing your hair back?

first night pit stop in Pismo/Shell Beach

golden girl in the golden hour

my reaction to having my selfie privileges revoked

I suppose she had a point

nailed it.

nigh-night, Shell Beach

"what the hell is that thing?"  Ohhhh *I* know what that thing is (I can hear you saying it out loud, Ellie)

what the hell is THAT thing?

Ah, it's a goober

This is the lot next to our hotel. The first two windows you see on the left are our bathroom and bedroom windows. That slab you see had been a building right up until they tore it down. At 7am. 

I shit you not. Here are the photos from  my yelp review:

Thank God the window screens were there to protect us from the demolition.

Later that day, however, we arrived in lovely Saratoga.

Trees! Sky!

Girl! Dog! Sky!

my husband with his girlfriend

We had a rare and somewhat unnerving night with his childhood home all to ourselves. That never happens!

We also had chinese food

The next night, we waited impatiently for cousins and siblings and in-laws to arrive. We passed the time playing games

dog scrabble

find a flea yahtzee

Yes Five!

They finally arrived. I didn't take pictures of many humans.

but look! dog cousins! they had an intense love/hate relationship. mostly hate. 

I gave Clara her special Thanksgiving dinner. Yum!

Ahhh, there's the stuff!

neighborhood picked bouquet. grocery bought cupcake/rolls

Then we retired to the den for more games

puzzles with a cinnamon kick

Hey, humans! and mules

Not pictured: 3 hour prep/3 second play of balderdash, hours and hours of Heads Up!

The worst thing about Thanksgiving away is that you don't get the leftovers. But we remedied that as soon as we got home with a very special Monday night dinner:

The end.