Get Behind Me, Satan's Pillow!

Ever have one of those "I think we built our house on an Indian burial ground" moments?

Yeah, well I blame that confounded doll Eric brought into the house last night.

And I'm not talking "Prom date." Though, in dating terms, this doll really was a cheap date, setting Eric back a quarter or two at most.

Even Eric realized his mistake, shortly after the awkward introductions.

She was, after all, downright creepy looking, with that pinched pink face peeking out of the pillowed frame that imprisoned her. Not a one of us could imagine resting our heads on such a pillow without suffering some kind of eternal damnation. And, as if that were not bad enough, he'd left behind her twin, up and abandoned her on some table at St. Teresa's Thrift Shop just around the corner from us.

Has anyone ever known a set of twins--evil ones, nonetheless--who willingly parted ways?

An hour later, when I stopped into Eric's room to say goodnight, I scanned the perimeters, making sure it was safe to enter. Fortunately, she was nowhere in sight.

There are just some things you don't want fresh in your mind when sleep is on the horizon. Eric understood this, having already stuffed the baby pillow from Hell into an unused overnight bag at the back of his closet. I found his act to be only mildly reassuring.

Sure, she has no fingers and probably couldn't work a zipper from inside, but who really knows?

I'm having trouble shaking that scene from "Poltergeist," when Carol Ann turns to the creepy little Tangina lady and utters: "They're HEEEEEERE!"

This does not bode well for the easygoing Holt household.

Trying to Measure Up

When Mark started working at Duncan Aviation, he was told to bring his own tools to the site. The night before he started, he spruced up his Craftsman tools, packed a good combination square and called it good.

When his coworkers saw the square, though, they called it downright hilarious.

Mark's square measured things in 1/16" increments. He soon found out that, at Duncan, woodworkers have been known to measure projects to the 1/1000th of an inch.

I can't tell you how many times in the past month alone that I have found myself without the right measuring stick.

Take Egypt and Libya, Bahrain and Belarus, for example. The other night, Allison and I were watching the world news, seeing Tripoli unfold and explode before our eyes.

"I would never do that," she said, as she watched protesters clash with the military. "I would stay hidden in my house until it was over."

I told her I would like to think that I'd be willing to take to the streets, if so many important things were on the line.

But, really, what do I know? I certainly don't possess a measuring stick of any worth when it comes to wondering aloud about such things.

The closest measuring stick I've found in all of this was the night the Egyptians took to the streets, celebrating the resignation of Hosni Mubarek. It is utterly irresistible to see a group of common-place strangers hug each other as they realize just what they've managed to accomplish with nary a bomb or a knife or tank. I kind of understood how they felt, flashing back to the raw joy that filled me when the majority of U.S. citizens chose a black man to lead them.

Even then, though, my measuring stick looked measly next to the crowds of Egyptians, many of whom had never known a day of freedom in their lives.

And then there's my friend, whose wonderful, smart, sharp-as-a-tack daughter is struggling mightily with some serious health issues. It is a day-to-day battle for this family, and I can't help but think that they must feel like they are on an isolated island, even with all the other folks out there who would like to build some bridges for them.

Even those who desperately want to help this family quickly realize that their measuring sticks seem both paltry and useless in this situation.

How can I understand a language I have never before heard?

. . . and where can I pick up some new measuring sticks, so that I might start getting to work on these important things?

Snoop Dog's In The House, er, the Kitchen

In twenty-plus years of cooking, I've made some memorable meals much like Snoop Dog has written some memorable lyrics.

"EeeyiyiyiyiyahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-owwse (the bomb)
EeeyiyiyiyiyeahtheDoggPound'sinthehou-oww-owse"

There was the time that, with mere spoonfuls left in her bowl of chicken rice soup, Allison discovered what, at first, looked like an uncooked grain of rice. In fact, it was the exoskeleton of the artist formerly known as "meal worm." What's a family to do, once they've reached the bottom of the proverbial bowls, except to wonder silently to themselves if meal worms might propagate in one's stomach lining?

"Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (the bomb)
Snoop Doggy, Do-owww-ohhhh-oggg (Dog)"

Years ago, I decided to battle my "mushroom" issues with a big potful of mushroom bisque. In the culinary world, this move was the equivalent of planting the flag at Iwo Jima, bold and brash and completely against the grain of all that is reasonable. Still, I managed to carefully wash and slice pound upon pound of my newfound fungal friends, adding handfuls into a pan of dancing butter. When the bisque was ready, Mark and I poured two bowls of the brown stuff and brought it to our quavering lips. About 45 seconds later, we tossed the remaining quarts down the alley, hoping no strays would come along and lap it up.

"It's the bow to the wow, creepin and crawlin
Yiggy yes y'allin, Snoop Doggy Dogg in
the mother(BEEPIN') house like everyday"

Last summer, during World-Cup fever, but just before we'd had two thousand vuvuzelas crammed noisily up our wazoo-zoolas, Lynn Ireland ran some sumptuous-sounding African recipes in her weekly Journal-Star column. I quickly cut out one, in particular, that caught my eye. Combining extensive spices, ground beef and bananas, and spreading it all out on a plateful of rice, this one had my name all over it.

I am, it turns out, a sucker for fruity meat dishes. Turns out, my family is not. There is an unspoken rule in the Holt household. Its unspokeness speaks volumes, though. Here is what a panning looks like at our dining-room table: Ten minutes into the meal, most of Mark's food is on his plate, though it has been shoveled around to new positions. It is about then when Mark and the kids share unspoken glances across the salt and pepper, each wondering when I'll ask if they like it. While silence is usually the kiss of death for a recipe in the Holt household, I really liked my African friend. And so we repeated the experience one more time, until I called "uncle" and tossed the clipping aside like so many vuvuzelas after a loss on the field.

"And let the Bizzow Wizzow ride the trizzack, ha ha
How you feelin'? I'm up to dealin', ridin' like a villan
Makin' a killin', thrillin' the crowd wit my new hairdo"

My cooking has a long and sordid history. There was the half-cooked hamburger I served to my soon-to-be vegetarian friend Allison...the 10 pounds of brisket I cooked down to something the size of a charcoal briquette, though slightly more flavorful...the innumerable chicken breasts, still tickled pink and viscous...flopped Indian cuisine that bore more resemblance to a papier-mache project than to food...apple-puff pancakes that lacked both puff and flour...

And yet, and yet. Like Snoop, that hip-hop genius, I know you's gots ta break some mother[BLEEPIN'] eggs to makes a [BLEEPIN'] omelette.

"Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (Jeah, [BLEEP], I can make ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP]r, Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, tank doggs, let me hear ya say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (all my real rap niggaz say)
Woof! motha[BLEEP], Woof! motha[BLEEP]
Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yay (yeah, Mystikal, where you at?)"

Like Daughter, Like Mother (I Hope)

I awoke yesterday with little more to do than get a haircut and grade some papers. With Scrabble out of the picture, then, I decided to be generous with my time and spend it with Allison. We headed to South Pointe with plenty of time to do a little shopping and get a bite to eat before succumbing to Bieber Fever.

At one point, she steered us to Victoria's Secret. I harrumphed and moaned, my breathing becoming both audible and sporadic and Allison chastised me for being such a noisy bad sport. She had a point. When we walked through the doors of Victoria's Secret, I was shocked that I had not set off the alarm, my ruse--and my cotton briefs--obvious from 200 yards away.

Where, at Victoria's Secret, does a stodgy mom look while waiting for her daughter to try something on? Everywhere I glanced, there were lacy slivers of material in flashy, bright colors, many imprinted with R-rated promises of trysts and temptation. More than once, I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. I finally settled on a rack of PG13 sweat pants, their waistbands spattered with tamer taunts.

I am a knucklehead of the highest order. I know that this does not come as a surprise to others but, for me anyway, such a realization carries with it the weight of lost opportunities.

In my sloth-like transformation from "Jane" to "mom," I have spent far too much time looking through my own life's lens when trying to understand what it is my children are seeing through their lenses.

All of this I realized halfway through yesterday's viewing of the new Justin Bieber movie, "Never Say Never."

Never say never, indeed.

Maybe it was hormones. Maybe I was still recovering from some lousy sleep earlier in the week. For whatever reason, though, I was utterly taken in by the movie. Before he'd even set foot on stage, I had already cried two or three times, my awkward 3D glasses pooling the salty evidence against the bridge of my nose.

And then, it struck me. The realization that I'd been doing "parenting" all wrong, when it comes to Allison.

Ever since going through a serious dress-wearing phase in preschool, Allison has set herself apart from me. Not on purpose, mind you. Rather, that's just who she is. More complex and aware than her mother, Allison has lived her life with equal helpings of athleticism and girlishness.

She wears makeup that she tastefully applies each morning. She does nails with the precision of an Old Master. She straightens her hair and owns more products than the neighborhood drug store down the block. She can set, spike and serve like a testy tiger. She likes pop music and dancing. She thinks it would be fun to be a cheerleader.

Turns out, Allison and I are very different people. And those differences can absolutely flabbergast me at times.

But I realized, right there in the middle of Justin Bieber's film, that this is my problem, not Allison's.

For someone who fancies herself to be both open minded and curious about the world, I have spent too long scratching my head about the differences between Allison and me, rather than relishing in all the things she has to teach me.

And so, I vow to leave my lens at home, when it comes to my daughter's life. It is, after all, woefully inadequate equipment to use when exploring a world that is so much larger, so much richer than my own.

It's time for me to be a student again. And Allison's leading the class.

Here's to Kids Who Came from Other Women's Wombs!

Odes, in general, should be read with a wary eye. After all, the fuel that powers them is love and adoration, two things which blur the lines like literary Vaseline.

Praise that flows from a mother's lips, however, is the most suspect of all forms of adulation. How, pray tell, does one filter out the shared genetic codes, the familiar blood types, the way each head of hair swirls in the same direction, and end up with something that even vaguely resembles the truth?

(That said, I'm convinced that I am completely capable of writing a spot-on, unbiased love song to my children, one that rings only of truth rather than unmet, outlandish dreams.)

This ode, however, is one not muddied by a single, shared womb. Rather, this ode, sung to other people's children, is that rarest of the breed, one that is 100 percent true.

The impetus for this ode was found in a pile of homework that was staring me down, not the typical source of such flowery praise. As I dug in, my editor's pen sharpened and at the ready, what I found was not last-minute cat scratchings meant only to appease the minimum standard, but gently unfolding gems, not a one of them written with me in mind.

That is the real power of teaching journalism. If my students succeed in telling a good story, it is not because of anything I do. Rather, their motivation is heightened by the thought of their peers perusing the work. And that is a powerful motivator not to be underestimated.

And so, yesterday, while the birds tweeted and the sun shone, each tempting me to leave my abode for greener pastures, I tied myself to the proverbial mast and ignored their siren songs, committed to getting through at least a handful of student stories written for our upcoming magazine. This issue's theme is fighters, and the kids tackled that subject from perspectives both concrete and symbolic.

At one point, I thought I was reading the New York Times. That's how wonderful these stories are.

Here, on a page stained with the remnants of an after-dinner snack, was the story of Elsie Eiler, Monowi, Nebraska's sole resident. Mayor, town-council president, tavern owner. It was a story my editor sought out on her own. She even skipped a speech tournament so she could make the three-hour drive to Monowi, where stories beyond my imagination sat patiently in the tavern. I felt like I was reading really good fiction.

When the topic of "fighters" was revealed to the staff, Kelsey knew immediately that she wanted to tell Chad's story. A super senior in his fifth year of high school, Chad does not have the burden of saving a town on his shoulders. Rather, he is simply intent upon saving himself. In the past two years, he has watched both of his parents die from cancer. Although two generations separate Chad and Elsie, the wisdom that peeked from the pages of his story made Chad and Elsie seem more like contemporaries.

And then, having tasted two such terrific stories, I turned my back on the sun and the birds and the lure of a Friday afternoon and gave myself over to stories of roller derby athletes who have discovered their feminine mystique, teen boxers who have found a way out of lives they do not want to lead, ghost chasers who take on the more invisible enemies of this universe and adoptive parents who have--almost literally--traveled to the moon and back for their foreign-born children.

I am happily befuddled by this place I find myself in, surrounded by a newspaper staff whose members seems to feed off of each other's enthusiasm, nudging themselves to operate outside of their comfort zones. This motley crew of teenagers have introduced me to zombies and firefighters, Winnebago elders and former South-Omaha gang members. They have spent the night in a 24-hour diner and spooked themselves in a haunted Omaha park. They have asked the tough questions--and the silly ones--and have made all of us better people as a result.

It is to them, then, that I sing my love song. To these kids who wake up each day, putting one foot in front of the other, the kids who find the courage to seek out stories worth sharing, especially from those whose voices have too long gone silent. They are some of the bravest people I know.

A Little Night Music

It is 2:30 a.m.

Nothing good happens at 2:30 a.m. Except a meteor shower. Or maybe a flying dream.

And nothing says "on the downhill side of life" quite like a bad night's sleep. These are the nights punctuated not with dreams so much as with watery-thin lists that wisp their way through my head, one dull line melting into another.

Eventually, I sit up and reach down for a book, calling "uncle" quietly enough to let my sleeping dog lie.

Speaking of my sleeping dog, I wish Hobbes would sleep a little quieter. For a guy who never says much, he manages to accomplish quite a bit each night, huffing and puffing, whimpering and scratching his way through what I can only imagine are scenarios involving lusty poodles and overlooked tidbits from dinner.

Some nights, all I can hope for is a well-disciplined fart that possesses both timbre and good hang time, a lone cry calling out to my mate, hoping to instigate one of those strange and funny middle-of-the-night conversations.

Ah, but even Mark is breathing slowly right now, impervious to my mournful, pungent song. And, since 2:30 a.m. is the perfect time for confessions, it's possible that I hate him just a wee bit right now.

I should go outside, I suppose, and reacquaint myself with the night sky. The last few days having ushered in warm, drying winds, I'd probably be able to lay on our patio without fear of earthy dampness. But there is that confounded moon, all cocky and full tonight, all "look at me! look at me!" as it blots out its cousins Cassiopeia and Ursa Major. That's just not a show I'm willing to buy tickets for tonight.

2:30 a.m. is like Lasik surgery, Timothy Leary style. It skews everything. Makes you doubt what you are seeing, hearing. It alters even the most ordinary things, turning patio doors into sinister eyes, the gurgles of a fridge into the shufflings of an intruder.

I'd make a lousy nocturnal animal. I'd be like a blind chihuahua, starting at every rustle of leaves, certain they are signaling my imminent downfall.

Man, I'd really hate to be a chihuahua, for all kinds of reasons. For one, I could not handle a 200-beat resting heart rate. And, then, there are those eyeballs. Mine dry out enough as it is, and they are reasonably recessed in my head, where my brain does not take up too much space.

Then again, if I were a chihuahua, I would not be typing this, would I? No, I would be flat on my back, panting like a frat boy, my bug eyes searching unseen landscapes filled with feral felines and urine-soaked fire hydrants. I would be the very definition of a good night's sleep, yipping at the appropriate intervals, happy to be somewhere else.

Two Cynics Walk into a Bar. . .

Matt was a senior in high school, with far more educational know-how tucked inside his school-issue button down than I possessed in all ten of my second-year-teacher digits. But that doesn't mean I was blind to the facts. Not all of them, anyway.

Also tucked inside this lanky, tightly-wound smart guy, though--bubbling just under the surface, like something you'd find in a Hawaiian volcano park--was enough cynicism to drown a whole town of rats. And, even though I had yet to make it even twice around the "teacher" block, I knew enough to realize that this was no way for a 17 year old to live.

That's when I called in the big guns. Because it was a private school, though, constantly strapped for funds, it is possible that an outsider would not recognize my friend Jim as "big guns" stuff. He is not much taller than me and, I suspect, probably weighs in less than me, as well. Yet, still, we manage to be good friends.

Jim was the school's sole custodian, responsible not only for keeping the place neat, tidy and well functioning, but also--as a kind of signing bonus for the place--the go-to guy for all things magical and positive. He was, without doubt, one of the best parts of that school. Which is why I put him in contact with Matt.

Mostly, I wanted Matt to meet an adult who was completely comfortable in his own skin, someone who could possess both encyclopedic knowledge and child-like wonder. (You can see why I refer to Jim as "big guns.") Jim has a palliative, healing way about him, one delivered not in hushed tones but, rather, in skin-stretching smiles and infectious, well-timed guffaws.

By the time Matt graduated from high school, he had grown fond of Jim and found himself a role model for a different way to live.

Ah, to have a dozen Jims at my disposal.

Some days, I am convinced that cynicism is the 21st-century's version of the black plague, sweeping through and wiping out entire communities with nary a concern about the human waste it leaves in its wake. Unlike the plague, though, cynicism has cleverly cloaked itself in desirable threads, enabling it to lure folks towards it rather than frighten away its future victims. People actually seek it out, as a lifestyle, a label of "cool" to apply to their lapels.

In these circles (circles that tend to all smell the same, for cynics are like in-bred dogs, lacking both the imagination and the nose for those who differ from them), laughter is both costly and rare, and the air is thin and disturbing. It is here, among the cynics, where Dante surely must have resided, penning his phrase "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." They simply assumed he was talking about hell.

I, for one, though, will continue to don my "optimist's" garb each morning, not naive to the hardships of this world so much as rebellious against the black tide that threatens to take away joy itself.

As for those who continue to snarl their lips, pass their harsh judgments and take under their wings those who are wavering, I have some advice, not that they'll take it, of course.

"Abandon hope, all ye who mentor here."

Like Two Ships in the Night. . .

"Are you using anything?"

It was a bottom-ten moment in my life, one of those lopsided, immensely awkward "conversations" in which I spent most of the time wide-eyed and horrified.

Oh, and did I mention I was 25, and not, say, 14 or 15?

Surely, by the time a person has packed in a quarter century of living, she should be through with those kinds of mother-daughter conversations.

Ah, but I wasn't much of a dater in my younger years. And my mom, pushing 60 at the time, was more of a looker than I could ever hope to be. Thus the delayed motherly talk, one filled with a strange mixture of hope and desperation.

By the way, I was the desperate one, while she was the one brimming with the hope that I was gettin' down wit' my bad self.

Eventually, just to end the "conversation", I had to promise her that I could, in fact, see my bad self from there.

Please, God, may I never repeat such a conversation with either of my children...

May they, just like me, happen upon someone who is kind and patient and handsome (or beautiful) and surprisingly stable, despite the influence of cable T.V.

If Eric and Allison are lucky enough to emulate their parents, they, too, can look forward to futures filled with deep love, plenty of laughs and, when away at work, that constant yearning to be back on home turf, where nothing terribly interesting ever happens, but it happens together and that is just fine with you.

That, if you ask me, is a happy ending in the making.

Make Way for Mama Bear, Who Awakens from A Very Deep Sleep

Despite having blue eyes and (formerly) blond hair, I've managed to squeeze out a few dominant genes in my lifetime. And, while I hate to use a term that may cause some people to clump me with that egomaniacal, pre-Copernican hairball Sarah Palin, it turns out I've got a rather well developed "mama bear" gene.

It's been quite a week for the mama bear.

First, Allison got sick. Then, Eric. Until this week, I couldn't remember the last time my kids have missed school or work because of the crud. Both Eric and Allison--haunted by the dreaded "deadline" gene passed down from the Raglin side--would rather (metaphorically) suck up a case of the sniffles than miss an obligation. For them to have called "Uncle" on school and work, then, was rather significant in our otherwise insignificant household.

Now, I'm not particularly motherly. After all, I let newborn Eric fester in his own urine-soaked cloth diapers for almost a week before I was told about the genius of plastic pants. But I do dearly love my kids, in a flawed, kind of quaint and limping sort of way. And some surprisingly good, maternal instincts bubble up from within me when stomach-soothing 7-Up is the drink of the day for the Holt kids.

Let's just say that I do not like to see my kids suffer the slings and arrows of seasonal influenza, even if its effects temper them in a way that renders them fitfully silent and sleepy--two qualities that should not be downplayed in the throes of adolescence.

And my mama-bear gene got no break by me going to school each day this week. In fact, it got downright sore (is it possible to pull a gene?) after sitting through 40 interviews of kids who'd like to write for the newspaper staff next year. Despite my Martha-Ray big mouth, I am drawn to shy kids. And to kids who overcome a case of the nerves to sit in front of 30 peers and a middle-aged cuckoo-ball teacher to talk about why they'd like to write for the newspaper next year. I hold great respect for that kind of quiet courage.

That I only have room for about 15 of these kids--each the child of parents who love them with mama-bear genes--has been a brutal truth to carry this week. There is no joy in knowing that I will break some young hearts next week when we post the list of next year's Newspaper staff.

One would think coming home on a Friday afternoon would offer the mama bear some much needed refuge. Alas, not yesterday. Chasing the signs of migraine and the fatigue of a very long and tiring week, I could not have been happier to see my couch. Oh, and my family. My fatal mistake, though, was to watch the national news, something I hadn't done in awhile. And there, on the screen in high-def glory, were tens of thousands of jubilant Egyptians, hugging strangers and newsmen, tasting freedom for the first time in 30 years.

What was a mama bear to do but weep when the 23-year-old Egyptian mother, cradling her child close to her bosom, spoke of a freedom she had never known, a freedom she hoped would become standard for her young child?

What indeed, was this mama bear to do except cry "Uncle", my body worn out from a long week of loving this world and its beautiful occupants, each of whom put one foot in front of the other, despite the odds?

The Handwriting's On the Wall

They say that the sense of smell is our strongest bridge between today and the past. Even now, I can recall the sweet scent of a fellow bus rider from 25 years ago, and how it made me think of my Grandma Raglin.

So, where does handwriting fit into the "memory lane" equation? Because it most certainly should.

Yesterday, an envelope arrived from our most excellent former neighbors, the Johnsons. It was addressed to Eric and me, a curious thing, considering we're mother and son. Inside, it became clear why.

Jeanne Johnson scrawled a quick note, saying they'd been thinning out their piles and had found the enclosed mailing. She thought we might like a copy. Indeed.

As I unfolded the enclosure, I found myself looking at my dad, who was looking at Eric, who was no more than a few hours old at the time. My dad was in hospital garb, recovering from prostate-cancer surgery, his lips a joyful coo.

I've mentioned in a past blog about how my dad and I were hospital mates at the time, my mom a bouncing ball of support between floors. Apparently, my dad created a mailing to let folks know that all was well. Of course, the newspaperman in him included a headline.

RAGLIN TYPES DOMINATE ST. E'S HOSPITAL:

And then, it goes on. . .

While I was counting the staples in my body, in the room directly below, daughter Jane gave birth to Eric Carlson Holt (8b 11oz.) on Sun. Oct. 18. And, good news: All hands are doing well! Thanks for your prayers, flowers, books, gifts, cards and more. --Jim

Ah, but then things get really personal, because the Johnsons, bless their hearts, also copies the hand-scribbled personal note my dad had written to them on the other side of his card. And they even included the return address, written in my mom's blocky, beautiful handwriting, surprisingly like my own.

The note begins with my dad's shorthand, acknowledging that all the Johnsons' first names begin with "J." Despite this fact, they really are good people!

J-J -other Js, it begins. . .
What a moment it was to hike down one floor and find this angel. Thanks & love to you two 5-star neighbors. Now, about those leaves--
Jim

I had not seen my dad's handwriting since before his death 17 years ago. I had forgotten how he looped his j's and squished his other letters together. Turns out there was one thing in his life that was right leaning--his cursive. And to see it so close to my mom's all-caps printing, hers so beefy and unafraid, well, let's just say it made me pause a bit, and then I walked across that bridge between now and then, taking my time along the way.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad--But Really Kinda Funny--Day

4:15 a.m. I wake with achy ovaries and a slight malaise, stretching my sore heel before easing out of bed. I think it's Friday but I'm wrong. I won't realize my mistake until I get to school, three hours later.


Hobbes the Hobo Dog remains on his clumpy bed, seemingly lifeless, as neurons misfire in his brain. When I finally rouse him, it's obvious he's had another seizure, his movements molasses slow, his head cockeyed to the ground. There will be much petting and gentle whispering into his curly, blond ears before I leave.

Turns out, it's going to be one of those days.

I drive to school under veiled darkness, a sense of foreboding at the edges. Well, at least the kids will get a ride today, thanks to the icy sheen and snow-covered streets.

8:45 a.m., one technological mishap heaped upon another, yet I've managed to shake away the blues. Across town, things are unfolding in spectacularly disastrous fashion.

Following a lunch of leftovers and a clementine teetering on the vague memory of sweeter days, I pick up the phone to check in with Mark, ignorant of the tales that await me. Mostly, I want to know how Hobbes is doing.

The story I get instead leaves me breathless and joyful. Giddy, almost.

Mark is in his 10th year of an affair. He thinks I don't know it, that I can't see the way he lustily looks at her, each time the garage door does its slow reveal. Apparently, this is standard form for a Subaru owner.

Ah, but today, he found her weak underbelly, and I could taste the disappointment over the phone.

They didn't even make it ten feet down our drive before the ice abruptly ended the love affair.

"THIRTY MINUTES! It took 30 minutes to dig it out of the bushes!"

Between Mark and the kids, each one took a turn at the wheel, while the others dug and pushed furiously. At one point, with Allison behind the wheel, it was five minutes before they discovered the car had been in "park."

Eventually, the embarrassed Outback eased her way back to solid ground and the crew quickly assembled inside, already late for school.

The Raglins are NEVER late. And these kids teem with "Raglin" genes.

Mark made it around the corner before he realized all was not well with the universe. He pulled over and discovered the truth behind that realization--a flat tire.

And so, the Holt kids rode their bikes to school yesterday, bracing sub-zero temperatures and tardy slips. Along the way, perhaps as they wended their clunky way past Woods Park, Eric realized his pants had a 4-inch gash in them. And Allison realized what a wonderful thing a hat would be.

In Geoscience, a cold half hour later, a kid nearly threw up on Allison, his sweet sick scent clutching at her pant legs.

She came home at the end of the day only to discover she'd gone through it with her zipper down.

We celebrated with dinner out at Noodles, where, it turned out, other people were having themselves some kind of day, too. When Mark's food arrived ten minutes after ours, one waiter slipped us some free bread and a Rice Krispie bar. Soon after, the cook stopped by and comped us two meals.

It was a spectacular day, another one for the books, and we left Noodles happy and filled up, both with food and good stories.