July 2010

July 2, 2010


I smell really good right now. I smell of hope and nature, dirt and fine food. Nothing says “Hell-O!” quite like minced garlic and ginger. Like an addict trying to extend her jag, though, I am resisting the sautéing stage until the clock moves closer to dinnertime. But, when butter and oil final commingle in my pan, well, I have no pretensions of good behavior.

It’s funny how much I’ve come to love food, considering how picky I was as a kid. Maybe “picky” is the wrong word, though. “Contented with low standards” might better describe my early epicurean adventures. When I was young, nothing could compete with a fried hamburger. Now, I would have to kill myself or at least chew off my arm if fried burgers were the standard fare.

I have son Eric to thank for this transformation.

As Eric was cooking in my belly, Mark and I realized several immutable facts. First, we knew nothing about being parents. Second, we considered refried beans and Velveeta to be a meal. Third, we knew nothing about being parents. Ah, but I repeat myself. . . That’s when we decided we needed an Action Plan. It’s important to capitalize “Action Plan” if one has any hope whatsoever of carrying it out. In truth, our Action Plan was pretty much genius.

We decided that, if we were going to have a baby, we should learn how to cook. And so began my journey toward finer foods. We pored over the handful of cookbooks we’d received from concerned friends at our wedding. And we wrote down the name of every recipe we figured we could make, if for no better reason than that we could read. We devised a master list that hinted of my future career as librarian, one that included recipe titles, page numbers and cross references to book titles. By the time we’d finished, the list ran about a page and a half.

A good start, to be sure, but not one that, in and of itself, would guarantee a happy gullet. For that, we needed real commitment. And so, as soon as Eric Passed Go and Collected $200, we started to form a weekly dinner list. Generally, it comprised five recipes that we figured we could follow without killing anyone. I would write down the needed ingredients for each recipe and then head to the store.

The result? Accidental good parenting, in the form of healthy, planned meals that eventually extended to six of the seven continents (still haven’t settled on a winning recipe from Antarctica), and included exotic ingredients like zangy ginger and delectable coconut milk, translucent rice noodles that look like internal parasites and sambal oelek, a spicy sauce that makes my chin hairs grow extra fast.

I am grateful that my kids don’t resemble me, at least at the dinner table. Unlike my stodgy adolescent self, they will try anything that is put in front of them. Maybe this makes them culinary hussies, but I’ll take that over the alternative any day.


July 4, 2010


The Bieber Diaries

One Sunday in Spring

At a standstill with the Sunday puzzle, I take a breather and clear my head with a little fresh air. Moments later, my peace is disrupted with a barrage of strung-together teen words spewing forth from the basement computer
.
‘OHMYGODmomgetdownhererightnow!Therearestillthreemainfloortickets leftfortheJustinBieberconcertinJuly!”

It’s true I paused a bit before trudging down the stairs to the fate that so clearly awaited me. Eventually, though, I face the saccharin music and, for reasons that are still not clear to me, have agreed to wrest my Mastercard from its dusty abode and buy three tickets to teen-girl paradise.

What box have I opened, Pandora?!

Thursday, July 1

Time’s a tickin’ and it seems that Allison has not forgotten the concert, despite my best ploys. Looks like I’m still stuck taking her and good friend Bailey to Omaha this Saturday.

I look up the Qwest Center website in hopes that there has been some sort of chemical spill along its exterior, thus canceling the week’s events. No such luck. Instead, I study the parking-lot layout of the Qwest, plotting which lot provides the quickest access to the Interstate (read, “home”). Whichever one I choose, one thing remains certain—it will set me back $6.

Friday, July 2

With just over 24 hours until Justin Bieber hits the stage, I start to panic. The panic manifests itself in a variety of ways, from a poor performance at morning Scrabble to a new tic in my left eyelid.

A lifelong list maker, I begin comprising my “JB” list. Far from a bucket list (unless you count the bucket that will house my vomit), its intent is to settle my mind, at least in terms of things that I can control. Like the route I will take. I jot down the GoogleMaps result for the Qwest, despite son Eric’s recent bumbled Google directions that led him 12 miles west of town trying to find his friend’s house, which is just a few miles east of 70th and Pioneers. I can only pray that the Google Gods got their game faces on when I enter my request for directions.

I pull out the wad of cash housed in my wallet. It really is a wad, I’m afraid, and a sad one, at that, comprised mostly of Georges and Abes. Hardly the stuff of a magical night at the Qwest, more or less a coveted spot out front. I then send out an email to brother Steve, who lives just blocks from the Qwest. This was an act of desperation, thinly veiled as an opportunity for uncle and niece to spend some extra time together. Steve does not bite. How can I blame him?

Good friend Allison heartily offers to take the girls to the concert. The bad little devil that lives on my left shoulder prods me to cave, while the good angel on the right whispers a hundred reasons why this is my challenge, my quest, not someone else’s. For once, I listen to the right.

Saturday, July 3: 4:43 a.m. to 4:45 p.m.

D-Day. The clock reads 4:43 a.m. Much too early for someone who already struggles to see stars break through the night sky, more or less for someone who is expected to be able to concentrate on the interstate long after my first round of dreams has usually subsided. I plan on a nap for this afternoon. For the safety of all of us.

A lovely, though accident-filled neighborhood patriotic parade takes my mind off of the evening’s events. I am happily distracted by the neighbor boy who seems intent to trod upon every square inch of his family’s flag as he makes his way to the parade’s beginning spot. Equally distracting and entertaining are the little girl who forgets her bike has breaks, the other girl whose hundred yards of twine ends up entangling her bike’s sprockets, the boy who has used masking tape to attach a military hat to his bike helmet, and the baby who makes it about three feet before becoming one with her stroller, dreaming of less humid, quieter summer days.

Really, it is a day of happy distractions—a gift from God, no doubt. I swing by National Pharmacy to pick up six sets of earplugs, holding them with the care and reverence they demand. And then it’s off to what might be the Scrabble game of my life, each handful of letters revealing more amazing combinations than the last. I leave Jill’s house not only with a rare summer victory but also with a sense of invincibility, certain that I will survive tonight’s concert.

I celebrate the victory with stops at a couple of neighborhood fireworks stands and a nap.

After the nap, I take a quick bath and change into what I assume are my concert clothes. Allison, however, tells me that khaki capris and a golden shirt do not an outfit make, and so I swap gold for blue, saving my energy for more significant battles.


Saturday, July 3: 4:50 p.m. to 11:25 p.m.

Earplugs? Check. Cell phone? Check. Directions? Check. Mastercard and license? Check. Bottle of water and gum? Check. Cash? Check.
We head out of Lincoln with the air conditioner blasting. The drive is easy and we are treated to a low-slung, impossibly long and perfect rainbow around the 42nd-Street exit off of I-80. We can actually see the house that is all aglow with the colors of the rainbow, as it rests on the front lawn.

I pull into a Qwest parking lot, only to discover that, in the two days since I’d last checked the website, the price to park has gone up 33 percent to $8. Before we’d even left Lincoln, though, I’d made a silent promise to myself that I would resist all of the cheap, efficient and fun-busting tendencies that usually permeate my being and be bubble-gum-pop-music Zen about the whole night. I happily pay the lady and ask her where she’d park if she wanted to make a quick exit.

We head into the Qwest, Allison, Bailey, me and 10,000 other teenaged girls. The hair on my arms stands on end—the same feeling I get before a really violent thunderstorm.
By the time we’ve retrieved our paperless tickets (cool!), we easily find our seats (second to last row on the floor, nicely located near both a bathroom and the exit), and make our way to a $37 feast of chicken tenders, fries and bottled water. Ohm. Ohm.

As we wait in our seats, I notice a gaggle of girls getting their photo taken with one of the three male teens at the concert. I look at him and decide he kind of sort of looks like Justin Bieber. The very same thought, apparently, enters the minds of another hundred girls, all of whom suddenly swarm him for photos. Not quite 15 minutes of fame, but I’m pretty sure he’s glad he came to the concert tonight.

A strange quartet of dancer/singers, stupidly called The Stunners, opens the night. One of two acts that uses no live instruments, I’m a bit baffled by the setup, though grateful that the set lasts only 15 minutes. I happen to look at the clock when I first start to yawn. It is 7:23. Not a good sign. Jamaican Sean Kingston, the third act, gets the crowd off its feet and gets me to find my earplugs. Ahhhh.

By the time Justin Bieber comes onstage around 8:30, the arena is pulsing with teenaged screams whose pitch and volume utterly stun the imagination. I reach up to my cheeks, certain I’ll find blood pouring from my ears. I also fiddle for my cell phone, something I typically use about once a month, and begin dialing friends. I don’t say anything into the phone, just let it record the hell that is mine. And yet I can’t help smiling, knowing how much fun it is to share this experience.

I finally turn my attention to the night’s main attraction and am surprised to find that I am, indeed, attracted. He moves well. He sings on key, mostly. And he kind of makes me tear up when he sings “You Smile, I Smile.” Taken aback by my mistiness, I assume that my period has just started, but discover that I simply have fallen under the wooing powers of Justin Bieber. By 9:30, when it looks like it might wrap up, I swallow my Excedrin Migraine, hoping the caffeine keeps me up on the road.

The concert ends around 10:15 and Bailey and Allison are delighted. We actually get out of the parking lot with ease and pull into the driveway by 11:25, smiles plastered on all our faces.

It was a really fun night.

Who’da thunk?!


July 8, 2010


My good friend Betsy was in town recently and, over tacos at a local restaurant one lunch time, the conversation naturally turned to the ever after. I say “naturally” for two reasons: first, you cannot eat tacos without pondering the future; secondly, our friendship is rooted in Young Life, a fairly liberal, loosey-goosey organization that focuses on the spiritual well being of teenagers. At the time we first met over (gulp) a quarter century ago, I was a volunteer Young Life “leader” (the organization’s term, not mine) and she was a teen for whom I apparently was concerned about her spiritual future.

When the lunchtime topic turned to heaven, we found that we currently stand on opposite ends of the topic. I say “currently” because, despite the negative connotations given to evolution among certain religious groups, it seems to me that, much like friendship and hair color and income-generating opportunities, our relationship with religion and all things spiritual also goes through an evolutionary process throughout our lives. And so, during that lunch on that particular day, while Betsy was thoughtfully pondering heavenly things, I stood in the opposite corner, not really interested in or committed to the belief in the existence of a heaven. Mostly, I was into my taco.

My vacillating skepticism in this final vacation destination (a skepticism I generally keep to myself) began in the early 80s, when I often found myself attending evening mass at the Newman Center on UNL’s campus. I was a college senior by the time I’d fallen into the rhythm of hitting the Newman Center a few nights a week for the quickie mass, and recall those times with a general sense of appreciation. One particular homily, though, didn’t sit well with me at all.

The priest, who, at the time, was the big cheese at the campus church, asked the mostly college-aged parishioners why it was that we were willing to follow God’s word and adhere to his sometimes very picky rules and lengthy list of regulations. As I was pondering my own answer, the priest blurted out what he assumed was the obvious one: “To get to heaven, of course!”

Frankly, I was shocked by his answer. If I took his proclamation at face value, then the whole “religion and spiritual-practice” industry was focused on the most unappealing question of “What’s in it for me?” rather than the more noble question of “What’s in it for others?” Then and there, I decided that I simply could not abide by this idea. After all, do we really think we’re fooling God, going through the motions apparently for no better reason that to get a decent seat in His house? As though he wouldn’t catch on to our clever ploy?

Ever since then, while I continue to occasionally grapple with the notion of motives as they related to the ever after, I’ve found that, as a whole, I'm generally less interested in debating the existence of heaven. Ultimately, for me, it seems to put the focus on the wrong thing—some obscure, unknown future date rather than the here and now. I think that this is one reason I’m not an avid goal setter. (Of course, the real reason I might not be a big goal setter is because such things require discipline and commitment. Ah, but I wander. . . !) For me, the challenge is to simply “be here, right now.”

And, frankly, the idea of living forever makes me yawn and feel a bit nappy. I just can’t imagine staying up for the Whole Show, when, as it is, I struggle mightily to stay up past 9 each night.

Ultimately, though, it matters not a whit what I think about heaven. If, in fact, there is a heaven, then I’m pretty sure its foundation is not so shaky as to suddenly disappear simply because some middle-aged woman with a muffin-top waistline isn’t sure it even exists.


July 10, 2010


In about a month, I will resume my hobby as a list maker, lovingly devising checklists of “things to do,” all the while debating the perfect pen with which to comprise just such lists. Rejects will find their wadded way into my office garbage can, disqualifying themselves in the “perfectly formed letters” or “smear-free” categories. I find great pleasure and comfort in a well-formed list, and especially appreciate the way it takes the edge off of the pressure to once again earn a living.

But even the Bible says that, for every thing, there is a season. And summer is NOT the season for making lists.

That’s why it was with a fair degree of disgust that I perused this morning’s Neighborhood Extra column on the necessity of day-trip grab-and-go lists.

Heavens to mergatroid! What is columnist Bruce Marksen thinking, advising daytrippers to remember their antibiotic and burn ointments, 2x2 sterile gauze, hydrogen peroxide and anti-itch ointment, not to mention the chemically-activated ice packs and masking tape?! Is his goal to repel future friends and fans?!

And yet, ours has become an increasingly insular society, one that values the things that remove us from directly experiencing life. From our obsession with swathing young humans with high-SPF lotions and antibacterial soaps to our Anita O’Bryant-like insistence that a day without air conditioning is like a day without sunshine, we are deeply committed to our protective layers.

The rebel within is mightily tempted to leave for this morning’s bike ride sans helmet, but knows that I’d get a tongue lashing from Susan and Rich as I pedal past their trail-abutting homestead. I’d like to think that I am strong enough to resist bathing myself in the Walgreens SPF 50 lotion before bathing in the neighborhood pool, but suspect I’ll chicken out and give in. Turns out, I’m not much of a rebel at all, unless you count the fact that I’m willing to go through a summer day in yesterday’s outfit and without makeup.

Ooooooh, I’m dangerous! A veritable 21st-century bad girl, teetering between jail time and melanoma treatments.

Watch out, world! This girl's on fire! . . . let's hope I've got some calamine lotion around. . . .


July 11, 2010


I learned something new about my mom this week. Sally Raglin is as stubborn as a mule. Granted, a mule that looks like Doris Day, but a stubborn mule, nonetheless. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway, because any other answer comes way too close to something that resembles old age and memory loss. And I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that answer.

She certainly isn’t. And who can blame her, really?

It is wrenching to address issues of independence and safety with the person who birthed you. There is no easy way to frame a discussion about geriatric assessment, no way to “pretty it up,” and make it palatable. Ultimately, no one wants to give up the keys, metaphorical or physical. So, despite asking my mom to talk with her doctor about a geriatric assessment, and despite what seemed to me to be her open and positive response to my request, no such conversation took place this week.

And I’m telling at least the naïve part of myself that she didn’t have the conversation because she’s stubborn, not because she had no memory of the request in the first place.

Maybe that’s me being stubborn, I don’t know. But I do know that it’s easier to broach tough topics with someone who’s being a stubborn knucklehead than with someone who lacks the capacity to follow the conversation or to access relevant historical information.

These days, I am flooded with a mix of sweet nostalgia and deep sadness when I see my mom from a distance, ambling carefully up the steps to her neighborhood pool, thoughtfully and intentionally placing one foot in front of the other, still fashionable and beautiful but also undeniably older.

These days, it seems like some doors are closing for both of us--mother and youngest child. And yet, I can’t help but believe that there are worthwhile doors ahead, just waiting for us to knock.


July 12, 2010


Apparently, son Eric would make a sloppy drunk. This is based upon Mark’s observation of him this morning, shortly after Eric’s wisdom teeth—and most of his college funds—were left behind at the oral surgeon’s office. After staggering to the car, Eric spent most of the day on the couch (he got that from me), and hasn’t complained once. Other than turning him every half hour so to prevent bedsores, his recovery has required very little of the rest of us.

It’s been 28 years since I had more than 28 teeth in my head. When I got the news that the wisdom teeth had to go, I begged my mom to use an oral surgeon, in part, because my dentist’s name was DOCTOR HARM! Mostly, though, I wanted an oral surgeon because I wanted to try laughing gas. Anything but shots. Being the kind and wise and apparently well-insured mother that she is, my mom concurred with my wishes.

She drove me to the oral surgeon’s office—already, I was too giddy simply at the thought of laughing gas—and thumbed through magazines in the waiting room while my procedure took place. Had I known what awaited me, I would have busted through the picture window and never looked back. Turns out that just because someone’s an oral surgeon doesn’t mean that he has laughing gas or anything else that a dentist wouldn’t have. What this guy did have was 16 shots of novacaine, each of which he stabbed deep within my mouth until even my drool drooled.

I thought he would break a rib, the way he planted his foot against my chest as he yanked out one, then another, then another and then, thankfully, the last of my wisdom teeth. Like prepping a stuffed armadillo, he then proceeded to pack my face full of gauze. Apparently, he had just come into great reams of gauze, so generous was he with it. Finally, numbed to the gills like Elizabeth Taylor after a recent breakup and now able to fart gauze, he sent me home with a prescription and some paperwork.

Surprisingly, I felt pretty good about the whole experience as I buckled my seatbelt and headed with my mom to Family Drug at Clocktower East (odd, there was no Clocktower West or North or South that I know of). As she parked in front of Family Drug, I rolled down the window to put in a food request, since Demma’s IGA was just next door.

“Get me thum vethteble thoop, too.”

A man was painting the front of the drug store and I noticed that he kept turning around to look at me. While I’ve never made the pages of Sports Illustrated’s illustrious swimsuit issue—or even the advertising pages of Cooking Light—I nonetheless figured he was taken in by my beauty, even if it was mostly the inner kind. I smiled contentedly, trying to give him the satisfaction of a response. And still he stared. Some people really need to get a life.

That’s when I felt something warm and wet on my arm. Looking down, I realized that about two gallons of blood previously housed inside my body had oozed its way down my face and onto my chest. I looked like a transplant patient, mid transplant.

I still laugh, wondering what thoughts were racing through that man’s head that day. It almost made the whole experience worthwhile!


July 13, 2010


I’ve decided to take my time today, thanks to a cicada I met. He was sitting on our side steps yesterday afternoon, damp with metamorphosis, or raindrops, or the combination of the two. Clearly a newcomer, he had the peaceful presence of an elder, letting me get a closeup view of his dewy legs and still-drying wings. Whether it was peace or necessity that kept him there, he was unmoving and, for that, I was both grateful and impressed.

And so, I rode a little slower on the trail this morning, content to take things in and let things be. At one point, Mark and I took an old, crumbling side trail that led us alongside waves of daisies and coneflowers, chipping sparrows and goldfinches. It felt wild and surprisingly undisturbed. There is something comfortable in seeing how quickly nature can again lay claim to its territory, when given a chance.

Even after the ride, we were treated to intimate views of teeming communities, just by taking the backyard garden tour. I watched as two ladderback woodpeckers did an elaborate dance along the limbs of our neighbor’s waning pine. In front of them, a veritable plethora of insect life flitted across the pollen-laden coneflowers. A black swallowtail languished atop one flower for what seemed like minutes, slowly fanning itself as it loaded up on pollen. A hundred bumblebees and black wasps wended their way through the flowers, like commuters heading to work.

I am mighty grateful for the great heaps of outdoor time that my summers afford me. It fills me up, like a reservoir, and sustains me through the days when, once again, I am a commuter heading to work.


July 20, 2010


While I’m usually a big fan of wide open spaces, especially those on a calendar, I’m wondering if I’ve recently hit my own tipping point of unfettered freedom.

That’s right. My tabla rosa seems a bit maxime rosa these days.

It’s not unusual that I finally get my fill each summer. Most people, after all, aren’t all that great with free time. Especially Americans, if you believe what all those fussy, won’t-work-a-40-hour-week-even-if-you-take-away-my-chablis Europeans say about us. And they’ve got a point, by jove. I think the other side of the “American efficiency” coin is that we don’t know what to do with ourselves when faced with more than, say, ten minutes of free time.

In her terrifically titled book “Endangered Pleasures: In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity and Other Indulgences,” author Barbara Holland writes a great, spot-on essay about summer and how it takes some time to unfold. In it, she also says that Americans have become lousy at waiting for that unfolding. She blames air conditioning, 3-day weekends and our need to multitask, when pointing to the culprits of our inability to just be.

Actually, I think I’m better than most people when it comes to doing nothing, or at least having nothing official to do. Usually, within a week of turning in final grades for the school year, I’ve forgotten the names of most of my students and couldn’t venture a decent guess on the cost of a school lunch.

This seasonal amnesia is a great and beautiful thing, even if it occasionally sets me up for an embarrassing encounter. While I may never recall her name, I’ll never forget one encounter I had with a former student and her mom. I was a week into summer and happily loping along the bike trail in front of the Children’s Zoo, pushing son Eric in a stroller and working on my chickadee imitation, when I spied someone who looked vaguely familiar walking towards us. As they drew closer, I was certain the younger of the two was someone I’d once taught, and so I said with the certain yet relaxed air of the cocky person I am: “Hey, I once taught you!” To which the young woman said “Uh, yeah. I was in your Pop Culture class like a week ago.”

What’s one lost taxpayer, come the next school bond? Not enough, apparently, to make me change my erasable-whiteboard ways…

And yet, I feel the need for a little structure these days. I know I’m ready to etch at least one legitimate entry into my otherwise empty desk calendar because I’m starting to become unproductive, despite the heaping helpings of openness in my days. Take this writing, for example. It’s been over a week since I last tinkled my keyboard’s ivories. Either I’ve run out of stories or I just can’t be bothered. Or maybe a little of both. Whatever the reason, one thing is true--‘tis the right time in this season for me to start getting a little antsy for activity.

I can feel my mind start to turn to all things autumnal. I scan the late July skies looking for the long, thin, gold-tinged clouds of a fall evening. I linger a bit when I wander into the clothes closet, silently assessing what can stay and what most certainly needs to go. I get a good haircut, one from a place that doesn’t have “Great Clips” or “Cost Cutters” in its name. I even think it sounds fun to go to an evening high-school football game, even though I’ll never do it.

Indeed, my tabla is a bit too rosa for me these days. Time to dirty it up a bit.


July 22, 2010


Allison Holt’s Super Spa was open for business last night. Her price was right and her products prolific. Mark was the main beneficiary of the spa’s evening hours, enjoying a 45-minute facial and bonus kneecap rub. I was content to lay next to them, working my way through the first chapters of a book. Eventually, though, like all good things, Mark’s spa treatment came to an end and Allison’s attention turned to her maladjusted mom. She begged me to let her give me a makeover, promising that even mascara washes away in the tub. I, however, was not convinced, though I eventually was the recipient of an excellent shoulder and foot rub.

This was just one in a long line of reminders that I still beckon to my tomboy roots. And, while I may be the only tomboy in this bunch, I’m not alone in the neighborhood. Just last week, bubbly twins Pixie and Peeper, who can see first grade from here, proudly announced to me that they, too, were tomboys. I gave them the secret handshake—well, a high five, anyway—and welcomed them to this exclusive club.

It’s not a bad club, as clubs go, though the snacks could be better. Still, a commitment to tomboy-dom holds many wonderful things for a girl, including twice the options afforded to more frilly girls on a free summer’s afternoon. Since joining the club in the early 70s, I’ve enjoyed many a summer day building ramshackle forts and racing my Stingray across curbs and over ramps, never letting a future scab or splinter get in my way.

Unlike my frilly counterparts, I can wear both men’s and women’s clothes. And my savings have been well padded by my lack of interest in padded, lacy things. Still, this is a confusing world for a tomboy. . . Take last week’s wedding I attended.

The bride formerly known as Metta “Ace Editah” Cederdahl was beautiful. No surprise there. Metta would look good in a garbage bag, though, really, it’s good she didn’t wear one that night. Her bridesmaids wore tasteful dresses as well. And Mark and I, ten rows from the center of the action, pretty much just felt old and out of it, and yet, happy to be there, as well. After all, Metta not only was my former student editor, but also our children’s babysitter and Sunday-School teacher. She’d been in our lives a long, happy time and we were glad to be in hers at this particular moment.

But I must say that I was baffled by everyone’s footwear. As Metta’s bridesmaids wended their way toward the altar, my eyes fell to their feet. Actually, it wasn’t that hard for my eyes to fall to their feet, considering that their toes were about a foot away from the ground. Teetering on heels that bespoke torture, I worried for their safe passage, wondering how on earth they’d dance to “Boogie Nights” at the reception, more or less if they’d make it the 50 yards down the aisle. After the ceremony, as the guests made our way outside the church doors and onto the lawn, awaiting the couple, I realized that heels are in. Really in. As in “four inches in the lawn” in. Dozens of Metta’s friends wore the same style of sandal, each taking turns aerating the church’s grounds.

And I had thought my newly purchased Naot “Ashley’s” were a bit on the “tall” side. . .

Most days, though, this middle-aged tomboy can avoid the painful truths of a more fashionable, slimmer, more shimmering world, content to ride her three speed Purple Hawaii with the reckless abandon of a young child, the wind roaring through my unfashionable though practical locks.


July 24, 2010


When people say “make yourself at home,” I doubt most of them really mean it. Frankly, there are some friends I’d never invite inside, more or less invite to spend time in my home the way a family member might. Heck, there are a few friends I won’t even give my address to, just because I value my neighbors and property too much.

But the slovenly lifestyle of some friends isn’t the only reason I don’t believe people when they say “make yourself at home.” Think about it. Before having guests over, most of us run around the house wiping the rims, putting down the lids, shoving the magazines in drawers, puffing up the pillows—okay, I have never puffed up a pillow, but you get the idea. Apparently, we’d hate for someone to think our house looked lived in. So why would we invite others in to give it that ‘lived-in’ look?

That said, I love it when people make themselves at home in my home. I take it as a compliment when people prop up their feet on my coffee table or help themselves to another cold one. I suppose I’ve even come to expect that behavior from certain people. My near-daily Scrabble fests in the summer are set up with great efficiency, with Kristie retrieving the board and dictionaries while Jill fills glasses with ice and water (can you say “par-TAY!”). Back in the day, I used to even finagle an occasional post-Scrabble deep cleaning from Kristie, whose habits border more on the pristine than my own do. Fortunately, I have no shame and it’s very hard to embarrass me, so I’ve never turned down the chance for a housecleaning from someone who’s not so sure she should sit down without a towel and some antiseptic.

The saying “make yourself at home” reaches a dangerous tipping point each October, when I (foolishly) open my house to the East High staff. Given what they’ve done to my house, I am left to conclude that, for some people, it’s normal to toss pumpkins and gourds down the laundry chute or to switch around the plates, glasses and spices in their kitchen cabinets. Given my own experience with these hooligans, I am left to believe that there are other East High households out there with two hundred school portraits crammed into every nook and cranny, most with some inane high-school comment on back. “Stay sweet and cool!” “When we first met, I thought you were stuck up.”

Oddly, that night I never once noticed all these people armed with mug shots, moving around my house like stealthy secret agents. In fact, Andrea had to practically bonk me over the head with a Budweiser to get me to notice the tiny portrait of our principal, tucked into a painting in the living room. I’m not surprised I didn’t notice, though. After all, it’s hard work to be a kick-butt hostess!

The school-portrait prank, which took place two years ago, was sheer genius. And it proved to be the gift that keeps on giving, considering I just found a mug shot of Chuck Morgan this morning, with the sentiment “Let’s party!” etched onto the back.

I cannot tell you the deep satisfaction that filled me as I went to bed the night of the school-portrait prank. Mostly, I can’t tell you because my head was fuzzy and spinning, so I don’t really remember much. But I do remember feeling loved, in a somewhat kinky, not entirely healthy sort of way. If that’s what it means to “make yourself at home,” then I’m all for it.


July 29, 2010


Mark and I have assured that both of our children will be relatively cheap dates, when the time comes that someone wants to date either of them. How did we do it? Simple. We don’t have cable TV and we don’t own a shower. To some, this level of 21st-century neglect probably borders on the criminal, but we don’t bat an eye about it and, come vacation time, we actually reap great benefits from this otherwise daily absence.

Take our recent Nebraska water parks mini vacation, for example. While the water parks themselves are great heaps of fun—and cheap, to boot!—our family anticipated our stay at the Holiday Inn with just as much enthusiasm as we felt towards the parks themselves. With only a handful of over-the-air TV channels and one tub in our house, the prospect of developing writer’s cramp from working the hotel’s remote or taking a 20-minute shower after spending all day at the water park is an irresistible prospect.

Yesterday morning, with a few hours to kill, after filling up on pancakey goodness at the Holiday Inn restaurant, we sped back to our room to continue the Great Cable Tour 2010. At one point, the maid tried to break into our room, certain that, like most people, we would have fled its dark quarters for more exotic places. We had to convince her that we were okay and, in fact, were doing exactly what we wanted to be doing, thankyouverymuch! Who cares if everyone else is bored by Animal Planet, National Geographic Channel and The Travel Channel? For us, these were exotic stops on our short vacation and we would not be denied them.

We’ve taken our kids on some great, faraway places, including Florida and Mexico, and, while snorkeling above coral reefs and spying topless European women applying sunblock to themselves represented memorable moments, indeed, our kids were equally delighted by taking 2 or 3 showers a day. On one vacation, in fact, we finally went into the bathroom to check on Allison, who was laying on the floor of the shower, completely content to be there, even if she didn’t quite get the hang of how to actually take a shower.

I suppose we could have added a shower to our bathroom when we were updating it last year. But it would have changed everything, come the annual Holt vacation. We’d have inadvertently raised the “cool” bar, which, right now, is happily napping on the ground somewhere.


July 30, 2010


Given that Hobbes the Hobo Dog has eaten the same meal, sometimes twice a day, since we got him a few years back, I know that I can’t blame our lawn’s new brown spots on something new in his diet. Indeed, it just may be that, after the wettest of Junes, summer has finally started to take a toll on the grass. I know I’m starting to brown a bit around the edges...

In a way, seasons are like people, starting out as exciting bundles of newness, so full of potential and excitement. It really is one of the joys of living in the Midwest, to be rewarded with freshness, as one season starts to replace another. Sometimes, I think our Midwestern brains are actually wired to such change, because our thoughts start to turn to cool evenings and flat, mottled clouds just as the cicadas begin singing en masse.

Beyond district inservices and back-to-school advertisements, the telltale signs of fall are unmistakable. Assuming I mow the lawn this weekend (and our neighbors are hoping I do), it’ll mark the last time this summer that the lawn will need such immediate attention. Apparently, even the grass grows tired of growing. Our garden is riddled with signs of change, as well, from the Echinacea and tomatoes starting to cry “Uncle,” to the sudden appearance of elongated webs and their orb-weaver masters.

Even the neighbor kids who have been so committed to running across each lawn all summer seem to be calling a time out. Seems we’ve all grown tired of sweating (“It’s not the heat so much as it is the humidity.”).

Just last night, I took Allison to Target, for our annual hadj to the recently-erected school-supply temple. There, we let our fingers wade through uncountable boxes of #2 pencils and rectangular erasers. There, we knelt before unimaginable variations of notebooks, from the quaint, wide-ruled cousins of her past to the more rigorous college-ruled pages of her future. There, we loaded up on irresistible pens, new lunch boxes and brightly-patterned book covers, certain that these will be worthy guides as we enter a new season in our lives.

There, we met summer, giving its final nod to the next big thing. And we approved.