30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Three

Day Three

~ A photo of the cast from your favorite show ~

The cast of Criminal Minds

I have to say that this is my favorite cast - not the current one - since it changes from time to time.  Sadly, Jason Gideon (Mandy Patinkin), one of the greatest tv characters of all time, is now gone :(

Criminal Minds is, hands down, the best show on television.  I only started watching it, in out-of-order reruns, about a year ago.  This past Christmas, my kids gave me the whole five-season set on DVD and I can't get enough. The writing is superior to any other crime drama, and there's a clever mix of horror and humor on the odd occasion.  I am inspired by the character development and the relationships between them, on which the writers seem to really focus.  And I'm a living room psychologist, so I'm all over the study of the human mind and the human condition.  

I've never been one for scary stuff, though, so it's odd that I am drawn to this show.  I would have thought it would keep me up at night, but it's not really about the sadists and the sickos, it's about how the rest of the world copes with their existence. 

Oh, and I almost forgot. 

There's Derek. 

 * sigh * 

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day Two

Day Two

~A picture of you and the person 

you have been closest with the longest~

At a Mariners vs Rangers game, Safeco Field
October 15, 2009

I couldn't tell you the first time I met my oldest friend, Amir.  But I do remember distinctly that I didn't like him.  Isn't that the way most great friendships begin?

It was high school...my junior year I think.  He moved to our school and instantly befriended my best friend, who also happened to be the absolute unrequited love of my life.  Naturally, I was jealous.  

He was loud.  And gregarious.  Smart and funny and really, really popular, right off the bat.  Hated him.

Not long after we met, he was invited to a concert with our group of friends.

"Seriously???" I groaned.  "Not that kid. He's sooooo annoying!"

I lost the argument with whomever had invited him, whomever was madly enamoured of him at that moment.

And I lost every one after that, until he ended up invited to a party at my house.  And I think the rest is history.

What do I love about him?

~ A trip to Boston, and sitting at the foot of the Harvard statue in our cashmere scarves, pretending like we could actually have been students there.

~ The summer in London that he surprised me with tickets to Lloyd Weber's Chess on stage in Piccadilly, and we went dancing at the Lyceum. Crazy fun.

~ Too many nights downtown, too many beers, prom at the Waldorf.  

~ The fact that my parents consider him a second son. 

~ A road trip we took to Vancouver BC for Mona's wedding.  We took mushrooms on the way.  Hello, it was college.  I lived in Eugene.  What a blast we had!

~ He made me a thousand cassette tapes of our favorite songs, and each song would have a little explanation of why he chose it.  Each tape had its own unique title.  He mailed them to me all through college and beyond.  I saved every one of them.  For whatever reason I cannot remember, we took to calling each other Scarlett and Rhett, so each of the tapes was addressed and signed that way.

~ He has never once, in all that time, forgotten my birthday. Nor has he forgotten to call and send a card.

~ He never lost touch with me, even when I wandered away and our friendship risked extinction.

~ He takes more pictures than I do.  And good ones.

~ He loves his family.  He adores and admires and respects his parents (his mom is now deceased and I know he misses her terribly.)  He is devoted to his father and his daughter and he's even nice to his ex-wife.

~ We have travelled across continents to see each other, to be in each others' weddings, to celebrate in each others' successes and cry through each others' failures.  

~ In thirty years, we have never had a single romantic encounter with each other and have never spent a single moment being jealous or wishing otherwise.

In July he's flying out here just to sit at Safeco in a Ranger's jersey, while the Mariners kick some Texas butt.  Or the other way around, it doesn't really matter.  

Baseball, beer and hotdogs with your oldest, truest friend.  It doesn't get much better than that. 

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day One

I stole this from Facebook; I sure hope it's not some copyrighted thing I'll get sued for.  I could have done it on FB, like everyone else, but I'm going to use it differently.

The thing is, I spend way too much time on FB these days and not enough time writing real things, so I thought this might be a good way to get myself "to the page", as Joanne says, every day.

I have 30 days and 30 assignments.  I also have a really nice new camera and four weeks of photography classes under my belt, so I think I'm ready to go.  And instead of scribbling a one-sentence response to each of the daily assignments, my goal is to actually write.


So here we go.  Welcome to my 30-Day Photo and Writing Challenge.

Day One

~ A picture of yourself with ten facts ~

Circa 1966ish in Southern California.  I guarantee
either my Mom or my Grandma made this dress. 

1.  I'm a sucker for junk TV, but not like you think.  I can't watch a whole minute of Jersey Shore but I can sit through four hours of Full House reruns without a second thought.

2.  My initials spell my name.  Except for a brief period when I was married to my ex-husband, they always have.

3.  I once sold Rainbow vacuum cleaners for a living. It wasn't a great living, mind you.  I set a woman's carpet on fire one time trying to show her the dirt in the fibers with a big spotlight.

4.  I have lived in seventeen houses or apartments, in nine cities.  This is the longest I've ever lived anywhere - 14 years! Before that, my longest stint was in London, where I lived for five years during high school.

5.  I love to travel - anywhere - even if it's not far away. I love to fly and stay in hotels.

6.  I went to a British high school in England for awhile. We wore hideous uniforms and were not allowed to wear nylons or makeup. I got beat up pretty regularly by mean British girls in the bathrooms at lunch time.

7.  I've met David Cassidy.  I'm still in love with him.  Sorry, honey.

8.  I never lie about my height or my age. Why bother? Clearly I'm short, and I kind of like getting older. It makes me feel like I've earned something.

9. I am the least athletic person I know. I am highly uncoordinated and ridiculously non-competitive.  I don't understand game rules very well, either, which makes me a liability in any organized sport.

10.  I talk to myself incessantly and I think I'm hilariously funny.  Especially when no one else does.

Seeking a Cease Fire

Teenagers.

That sums up my weekend in its simplest form, although I wish it really were as simple as a word that I could type out, then hit "delete".  No, that came out wrong.  I don't mean I want to delete my teenagers.  I just want to erase all the shit that comes along with them that makes being a parent such a crappy job sometimes.

I'm sure my own parents are sitting back with a glass of wine, laughing, thinking "Yup, this is payback."  I know I wasn't the greatest kid on earth.  I remember once my mom even told me that I wasn't "her favorite person" when I was a teenager. Wow, that's nicer and more diplomatic than I think I could be right now. Of course, that was when I was in my 30's and the scars of my hateful self had all healed for her.  I think.

But after all was said and done, this weekend, after battling with both my boys about doing dishes and taking out the trash, it came down to Matt and me, like it always does, butting heads over so much more than chores.

This is the kind of day when I talk to his dad.  I talk to him every now and again, when I think he's missing out on something he ought to have been a part of.  When it's something good, like something Matt does that I know would have made him proud, I talk to him with a little kindness.  I tell him things like,

I'm sorry you're missing this.  I wish you could be here to see the wonderful things he's doing and the young man he's become.  I wish for both of you that you could share this moment.  I'm so sorry that you felt you had no other choice, that your heart was so heavy that leaving him was all you could do. 

But on days like today, I'm less likely to be kind, and more likely to let the bitterness from his death overwhelm me.  I'm more apt to say things like,

Damn you. Damn you for leaving him, and leaving us to pick up the pieces of your mess.  We didn't deserve this.  Now we're here, wading through the wreckage of your untimely and selfish departure, trying to survive this pain and all the questions that will never be answered.  You're gone, and in part because of that, we are hurting each other in ways that mothers and sons should never do, because both of us are angry at you. How can I forgive you? 

I know my issues with Matt aren't all due to his dad. Of course, as the ex-wife, I'm supposed to say they are, but I admit we have done our own damage that Kenneth had no part of.  Perhaps we're no different than any other mother and child, struggling to find their own unique connection that leaves them both content and secure.

Someday, I would like to hope,  Matt and I will find a connection that is more like what I believed mothers and their sons shared.  Someday, we will stop being at war with one another, whether he lives here, or far away from me.  I have to believe that, right?

Sometimes, our only mode of transportation is a leap of faith.

I Remember...

The other day, I was on Facebook "talking football" - ok, I use that term loosely - with a small group of women with whom I went to high school.  I mentioned that I was pulling for the Packers, and Emily warned me not to tell Liz that I wasn't in favor of her Chicago Bears. In the meantime, I was trying to make sure I was rooting for the Jets, Kim's team, but worried that if I didn't put some faith in Pittsburgh, I might hurt someone else's feelings. In the end, I giggled and thought it was pretty cool that all four of us, Emily, Kim, Liz and I - were wearing four different jerseys last Sunday, yet we all grew up in the same town.

How's that? you ask. And, how is it that we will all be attending our high school reunion in Chicago this fall, when none of us is from Chicago? (Ok, Liz, maybe you are.)

When I explain it, I'm always afraid of sounding arrogant or pretentious.  Sometimes I try to downplay my upbringing, or act like it was no big deal, but the older I get, the more I realize it was a big deal, and it's something of which I am very proud. My parents weren't rich - far from it - but I was privileged in a way that I will never be able to bestow upon my own kids, no matter how much money I make.

When I was twelve years old, about halfway through the worst year of my entire life in Portland, Oregon, my Dad announced that he had been transferred and we were moving.  (I was being horribly bullied at school and was miserable every waking moment of the day, so he couldn't possibly have delivered more welcome news.)  Thing was, we weren't moving to California, or even Washington - places with which I was somewhat familiar and that I could picture in my head.  In fact, we weren't even moving to some remote, cool place, like New York, which I could have romanticized, having never been there.

My Dad had taken a job in England.

Great Britain.

Hmmmm.  Where was that again? My seventh grade geography skills were a little rough.

Soon after my thirteenth birthday/going away party that summer,  my family packed up and hopped a plane to London.  By that time, I knew exactly where it was, and I was pretty clear on the fact that it was a gazillion miles away from everything and everyone I knew and loved.  And, it was a gazillion miles away from Steve Greer and John Coleman, 7th Grade Terrorists.  I was ready.

My parents bought a house in north London, away from the military bases and the centralized "American districts" in the city. My brother, John, and I tested to get into a public school (that's private, for us Americans) but neither of us passed the entrance exams. (Come to think of it, John might have. I know I didn't.) They wanted us to assimilate.  We, conversely, missed Doritos and Oreos. Finally, they put us in a comprehensive (read: public) British school and wished us well each morning as we headed into what later became a loving family legacy joke. Ravenscroft was the name of the school, but I think even my Dad called it Ravenscrap in the end.

We spent Christmas of my eighth grade year in a gorgeous Zermatt, Switzerland, hotel room, overlooking the peaks of the Matterhorn.  The real one. During that holiday, which was no more or less spectacular than any of the countless others we took as a family over the course of the next five years, my parents discussed the option of pulling us out of the British school system and enrolling us in The American School in London.  I remember walking to school that following week, in our hideous school uniforms, making a pact with my brother that if our parents would let us move, we wouldn't even ask for new clothes to wear in the fancy, new, non-uniformed school.  American kids??? American teachers?? Just like "home" ???  We would happily continue to tie our orange and navy and gold striped ties every morning if that's what it took.

We entered ASL that January, and I was fortunate to spend the following four and half years there, graduating in the 101-member Class of 1982, with some of the greatest, truest friends I will ever have in my life.  Friends who came from all over the world - not just the United States - friends who had been uprooted from ordinary suburban American lives like I had, and friends who were merely stopping briefly in London between adventures in Saudi and Teheran and Melbourne.

Twenty nine years later, I am still in touch with many of my fellow ex-pats and we have shared many memory-filled weekend reunions in cities all over the U.S. Most of us can't get to London so easily these days, so the school holds our reunions over here, choosing a different city every five years.  We have become teachers and nurses and investors and stay home parents; we have built families - some of us have married our old high school sweethearts, and others, like me, have raised children with steadfast Americans who can't begin to understand what it meant to grow up in a foreign city.

Except it wasn't foreign to us.  The day I caught a plane "home" after graduation, I couldn't stop the tears.  I had no idea what I was going back to, nor did I have any desire to go there.  Everything I had come to know and love was intrinsically woven into the fabric of that city - and that school - and I was unsure of how to return to a place I no longer belonged to.

I made it ok. I went to college here and I live quite contentedly in the Pacific Northwest now.  But there isn't a day goes by that I don't miss

... the London rain. The smell of the platform of the Totteridge tube station at 7:41 on a Monday morning, the taste of a sweet, room-temperature cider when an Op Period backs up to lunch time...I miss the cobblestone streets and the leaded glass windows of my bedroom looking over my mother's rose garden. 

The first car I ever drove was an Austin Mini - half the size of the ones you can buy today and twice the fun...but I miss taking the tube everywhere we went instead, and keeping an eye on my brother, who always fell asleep to the rhythm of the clickety-clack of the tracks, and who counted on me to wake him in time to get home. (I often failed...hence the late night calls to Dad...)

I miss standing out on the library steps after school catching up on the gossip, meeting up at The Chiltern in Baker Street station on a Friday night for a pint...I miss the theater and the cheesy tourist stuff too, like Madame Tussauds and the Changing of the Guards. I miss Mr. Jesse and his crazy self teaching us how to love Shakespeare, and Mr. Noble being the best PE teacher a non-athletic girl could ever love. I miss the hours-long ride out to Molly's in the country, and the excitement of a sleepover smack downtown at Suzan's dad's pub. 

I spent the night before Princess Diana's wedding with these friends, curled up in a sleeping bag on the concrete of Trafalgar Square, just to catch a glimpse of her satin gown the next morning - and it was one of the best nights of my life. 

I took a trip down memory lane tonight, unintentionally; Matthew asked me to sit down and watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail with him and Jack.

I agreed, a little reluctantly - I mean, it's been 25 some-odd years since I last saw it and I'm pretty sure I was under the influence of something much stronger than red wine at that time.  I knew Jack wouldn't understand most of it, although with as much Spongebob as he watches, he should have clicked into the random humor.  But I love that Matt loves British humor,  and I remembered it was really effin' funny at the time, so I gave it a shot.

And suddenly, I was travelling a long way back to a time I keep thinking is going to fade from my memory, but it never does.

I'm so glad I found you again, Kim and Emily, Liz and John P, Molly, Beth, Andi, Julie, Suzanne, Neil, LeeAnn...and for those of you I never lost...Jochann, Amir...you can only imagine how hard I laughed tonight and how many good times came flooding back to me as I sat there, in my suburban American life, sharing my past with my kids.

Thanks for the memories :)

 Trafalgar Square, July 29, 1981 (that's me in the middle)

Enough

I'm struggling a little here. Ok, a lot.  I can't keep my mouth shut.

On The Today Show this morning, there was a segment about a high school in Tennessee that reportedly has some 90 teen mothers, or currently pregnant students enrolled.  I listened to the story and then I read a few articles about the school district and the superintendent.

What I inferred from my reading is disturbing: somehow, some way, this "epidemic in teen pregnancy" is going to end up being A) the fault of the educational system in Tennessee and B) the responsibility of that system to fix it.

Huh?

The school's fault.  Why haven't the teachers and the principals and the superintendent been paying more attention? Why are they offering support and resources to these teen parents? Why are they condoning this behavior?

Huh?

When I was a kid, these are the things we learned in school:

Math
Language Arts
Science
Social Studies
PE
Music
Art
and maybe like one week of sex ed in 6th grade that taught us the mating habits of turtles or some animal completely unrelated to humans.

SCHOOL.  It was a place for learning ACADEMICS.

The rest? We learned AT HOME. From our PARENTS. And our friends' parents. THE VILLAGE.

Three years ago, right before I left the profession, I was teaching 10th grade English.  For the most part, that includes a lot of reading and writing, some public speaking, some organization skills, some research skills and, as in all classrooms, some learning about how to sit still and pay attention.

In addition,  I (the school system) was held responsible for each student's success in the following areas:

manners and general courtesy
money management (Ms. M, I don't have any lunch money; Ms. M, I don't have any money to buy school supplies)
homework completion
makeup work
special tutoring
getting along with others
drug and alcohol abstinence/education/counseling/enabling
getting along with parents
homelessness
hygiene
nutrition
[teachers, add your own here]

When did all of those things stop being the responsibility of PARENTS and COMMUNITY?

When did it become okay for Mom and Dad to disengage from a child's life to the point that a school superintendent is now in the hot seat because he has pregnant students? Is he organizing orgies in PE? Is that why it's his fault?

Seriously?

Freakin' Walmart might as well be just as responsible.  There are far more pregnant girls in there than I've ever seen in a school and no one's calling their CEO up to the front of the room to explain what the hell they're doing wrong.

This shit has to stop. It's been making my blood boil all day.

Stand up and raise your kids, people.

Still Faking It

Jack just got a little irked with me over my last blog post.

Evidently, even though I'm on the upswing of the Football Learning Curve, and I know why and how my Hawks actually lost that game to Da Bears, I am NOT allowed to trash talk them with comments like "got their asses handed to them".

God, Mom, they didn't play that bad. 


Seriously? They didn't show up to the game until the end of the 3rd quarter, dude.


Whatever.  Way to support your team, Mom.

Oh.

Woops.

Icing our Wounds

After the Seahawks got their asses handed to them on a platter today, Karma and I took the kids ice skating as a consolation prize. Only two of them had ever been before; Karma and I weren't first timers, but we couldn't count back that far trying to remember how many years it had been.  We ended up having a blast, even if everyone's ankles are burning tonight, and Jack has a blister the size of a silver dollar on his foot.  There was a fair amount of laughter mixed with pain and humiliation, although Brian kind of showed everyone up with mad skillz. 

Sydney, Shane, Jack, Brian, Matt and Elijah

and a LOT of this.

There was some of this...

Karma almost let go of the wall for a bit.

Jack kept trying to pull me down with him,
but I was way too smart for him.

and so did Syd...

except for when she was laughing at Shane.

Who would have thought a day on the ice could cure all ills?

Fake It Til You Make It

By all standards, I'm not a huge football fan.  I usually can't tell you who plays for which team, I don't fully understand the game, and I often confuse college teams with NFL teams, as in "So the Ducks are playing the Colts today, right?"

But I like it.  I like the sound of a game filling up my house on a Saturday morning; I like that my kid loves to play it and that I get to stand out in the cold and cheer him on.  I watch a lot on tv these days, and I've been to plenty of games in my time. Of course, most of these were in college at the U of O, and, if I remember correctly, that was more about who had the best tailgater in the parking lot, and less about what was happening inside the stadium. Still. I was there. Sporting logo gear and all.

I do know that the Seahawks are "my team" and that, being an Oregon Duck, I should be setting aside a few hours tomorrow night for wings and beer.  I'm not entirely sure why - I mean, I know they're playing a championship game, but I couldn't tell you if it was the championship between college teams in Oregon or between all the football teams in the country.  Or some contest in between.  I just know that it's supposed to be a great game, and I'm going to watch it.

Yesterday, as the Hawks gave the Saints a little southern ass-whoopin' of their own, (and yes, I can say "Hawks" because they're my team, remember?)  my son Matt came in and said to me,

"You seem so....involved... in this game."  I felt a little silly then.  Honestly, I had no idea what was going on, in terms of plays and stats and penalties and timeouts.  I just knew that we were playing a game we shouldn't have even made it to, (although I can't explain that either) and we were winning! Of course I was involved!

Who can deny that kind of energy, even if you can't tell the difference between a quarterback and a tight end, unless you've got a clear shot of the number on the back of the jersey to tell you it's Hasselbeck?

Not me.

I get all caught up in the glory of the game and I'm hootin' and hollerin' and posting scores on Facebook with the best of them.  Sometimes I wish I knew more, so I could hoot and holler intelligent things, like John does.  He shouts advice at the players, and I have no doubt that it's good advice.  Someday, after I get through Football for Dummies, I'll be able to do the same.

For now, I'm just making noise and having fun.

My parents house in Arizona - they're Ducks by Tuition

Back in the Day, I Could Handle This

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I lived in a pretty low-rent college apartment in Santa Barbara with a couple of friends.  Back then, we didn't actually consider it low-rent, seeing as how we were newly post-college and trying to make it on our own.  We split a one-bedroom three ways and made it work somehow. The thing was, we thought we lived on Melrose Place, since it was only four blocks from the beach and a few miles into downtown and the party center of State Street.  We had furniture from RentWorld and dishes we'd stolen lovingly kept as souvenirs from the dorms.  And life was great, even if we did share our little place with several thousand huge cockroaches.

Yep.  Lots of 'em.  One night, I remember sitting out in the hallway, reading (I think this was because one roommate was sleeping in the living room and the other might have been entertaining in our bedroom).  Every few minutes, I had to brush the bugs off my legs. But I sat there anyway, instead of running back to my parents' house in tears, which would have been a much nicer arrangement. The little guys had become such a norm around our place that they were more annoying than disgusting.  When the exterminators came and we had to evacuate for the weekend, we thought our problems were over.  But after they bombed the entire complex, they neglected to clean up the casualties.  So we had to go around the apartment, sweeping up piles and piles of shiny little black corpses, which we then had to scoop up and dispose of on our own.

So one would think that now, having survived that, and being a mother who has cleaned up the horrors of children's injuries and sickness, one who has had spiders and snakes and other icky animals thrust upon her by small boys, one who currently lives with teen aged boys and who is subjected to not just the incessant talk of, but the toxic odor of, their bodily functions every day, one would think that I wouldn't be freaking out about the newest guests in our house.  But I am.

We have mice. 

Or one, very industrious, very smart, very busy mouse.  I'm certain there's a whole herd of them, or flock, or whatever you call a gang of mice, because they did so much damage to the food stores in my pantry that we had to empty the entire thing out and toss at least half of the contents.

They got into almost everything.  And the funny thing is that they were reorganizing my food.  John opened a bag of rice, and inside it were a dozen Milk Duds.  Huh???  There was popcorn in the box of cornmeal.   Like the critters didn't think I had things in the right place.

I Clorox bleached every inch of my pantry and kitchen, as well as every can that survived the attack.  And I still don't really want to put my feet on the floor.  Or wonder where they're all hiding since I just cleared out their Armageddon stockpile.

Eeeew.

My skin is kind of itchy now.

Oh help.

I hate this part, where you have to actually parent teenagers.

Since Matt came back in April, I've been pretty lenient with him in terms of house rules.  I don't bug him too much about keeping his room clean, or staying out late.  I don't read his texts and I'm not his friend on Facebook.  I have chosen my battles very carefully, hoping that the glaring unfairness between his rules and Jack's won't come back to bite me....too hard. I've just tried to keep the boat steady, while still upholding my morals and beliefs.

And then he got a girlfriend.

Now I have to draw some lines.  Like, for one, you can't spend the night in the same room.  And...and...ok, that's really the only one I'm all that twitchy about.  Kiss all you want in front of me (eew!) and hold hands and talk in that stupid lovey-dovey voice on the phone all night.  I don't care. Write love notes.  Stay out all night, even.  Sleep together somewhere else - honest, I'm good with that.

Just not here.

Call me old fashioned. It's just not ok for teenagers to sleep together in my house.

And the "But I'm 18!" argument doesn't hold any water with me.  Yeah, you're 18. That does not mean that suddenly, you are the King of the World and can do whatever you want, whenever you want, with whomever you please.  No, you are still My Kid, you still live in My House and you still abide by My Rules.

Tell me I'm not totally uptight.  Any parents out there letting your teenaged love birds share a bed under your roof?

If I remember correctly, Brooke Shields and her boyfriend were allowed to do that in the movie, Endless Love, and look what happened there.  He burned her freakin' house down.

See? It's a bad idea.

To the New Year

Happy New Year, everyone!  I missed the opportunity to wish you all a Merry Christmas, so let's throw that in there too.

How quickly the days go by once school starts in September.  I always think I'm going to get so much done once the kids are gone all day, but it never happens.  It seems the more time I have, the less I get done.  Which should mean, theoretically, that since I'm working now, I'm uber-productive at home.

Not.

I didn't even completely decorate the house for the holidays this year.  Normally, we kind of go all out, with indoor and outdoor decorations that set the mood for the entire season.  John managed to get the yard done (beautifully, I might add) even with the trip to Hawaii right in the middle of the Parade of Boys with Ladders, our neighborhood weekend of Christmas light adornment.

But when we returned from heaven, I mean, Hawaii, I couldn't get into it.  Compared to previous years, I was kind of a humbug.

The good thing is that I don't have too much to take down and pack up.  Still, it's gotta be done and today's the day.  Once it's all back in the garage and shelves are dusted, knick-knacks are rearranged and replaced, carpets are vacuumed in places that normally don't get vacuumed, I'm planning to begin work on one of my NY resolutions, which is to be more organized as a mom who works outside the home.  It's been way too chaotic since I went back to work.  My time management sucks.

My other resolutions are just like yours: lose weight, spend more time with the kids, organize my photos, clean out the linen closets, call my mom more often, that sort of thing. Nothing interesting or new, but nonetheless full of hope.

Wishing you a quiet and restful weekend before the new year kicks into full gear.  Let's make it a great one!

*Sigh*

I have ILH Syndrome.

I Left Hawaii.

And now I'm back home, in the rain and the wind and the can't-decide-if-it-wants-to-be-freezing-or-just-plain-cold state of Washington, and I'm not adapting well, at all.

My friend John suggested that the state of Hawaii give you a month's worth of anti-depressants when you get on the plane to go home.  Um, yeah.  Super idea.

Here's my photo journal of one of the best vacations I have ever taken in my life.  I have to say, here, that I spent a number of years living in and traveling around Europe, enjoying some of the most beautiful scenery in the world,  and this trip to Maui (my first) ranks up there with the best.  Thanks, Mom & Dad!!

Day One, downtown Lahaina, already loving it, even without a tan.

My Dad on his balcony, as we found him every morning. Crossword, coffee, sun.  Life's sustenance.  

The view from MY balcony

The view from my chaise lounge. If I chose to open my eyes.

About ten steps out the front door of our condo. 

With Mom at Morning Happy Hour (at the Kid's Pool!). Killer Bloody Marys with extra olives :)

John & me getting ready to snorkel (not a graceful sport) ...sea turtles everywhere!

] 

Seriously. 

This is the kind of gorgeous flora and fauna that is everywhere you look.  Unbelievable!

Even when it was windy and rainy, it was beautiful. 

Mom & me enjoying a cocktail before the Luau. One can never be too far ahead with Mai Tais, you know. 

The view as we enjoyed those.

At the Luau with our waiter, Rob.

My Dad had a few Mai Tais too...

Unforgettable vacation with my folks!!

Crazy Stuff

  





It's three days before Thanksgiving and this is my house as I go to bed tonight.   

I kind of love it, as long as I'm in here. 

The hour-long drive home from work - four stoplights and two turns - not so much.

I just posted on my Facebook the new kind of noise in my house. I should take that back; I shouldn't call my son's music noise.  Or my husband's, either, for that matter.  Apparently, I now live in a highly musically inclined family.

Matt is in his room - slash- recording studio - mixing some kind of "hard style" music with which I am only recently familiar, thanks to him.  It's not bad, it's just very techno, and very, very, very LOUD.  And lots of bass.  Thumpy.  Deafening, if you want the truth.   There was a time, I admit, when the subwoofer was the coolest piece of stereo equipment in any guy's apartment, but at my age, really, it's just a huge headache maker.  No offense, Matt.

So you would think that if my 54-year-old husband were suddenly to take up a musical instrument, almost simultaneous to Matt's embarking on his recording career, that I would be thrilled, right?  They'll have something in common!  They might start a band together...what if Matt recorded John and they both became You Tube sensations?!

But what I really had in mind, there, was that John might take up the acoustic guitar. Or, say, something, older. More ... dignified.

I got what I asked for.

He took up the Bagpipes.

Dignified, yes. Older, for sure.

Quieter?

Than a techno, bass-driven screaming recording studio?

Not so much.

The noise level in this house right now, with both of them in their respective practice rooms, with both of their doors closed, is insane.

And what do I hear, when there is a break in the cacophony?

Matt: Hey, John, this isn't too loud is it?

John: No, you're good.

Matt: Ok, cuz I didn't want to throw your beat off or anything.

Too bad Jack's shower rendition of Club Can't Handle Me is getting drowned out.

LOL for the Day

You may have seen this on The Today Show this morning, but if you didn't, it's classic!

Being the mom of a middle school football player who is now dying to use this play, it made me laugh :)

So Halloween turned out to not be so sad after all. First, there was the Haunted House on Friday night, which was a huge hit. Jack didn't get home until almost ten, at which point he had to tell me all about it for another hour. He said he felt a little bad because he had made three girls cry.

"I wasn't even trying to scare them, they just looked at me and started bawling. And I was all, like, it's ok! Don't cry! I'm just a kid, see?"

Then, come Sunday night, imagine:  he wanted to go trick or treating. I should have known. Three hours of virtually unsupervised collection and consumption of free candy.  Hmmm. Who in his right mind wouldn't want to go?  Fortunately, his buddies agreed, and off they went, for a night of reckless abandon.  I'm so grateful for one more year of this, since I'm perfectly, painfully aware that in about four three two years from now, reckless abandon will mean something completely different.

For now, he's still just a kid.

I went back to work a couple of weeks ago, and even though my job is supposed to be part time, during the school day, I have been covering a full time shift for the first few weeks. I don't mind it; there's a little extra money I wasn't counting on for the holidays, and I'm learning my job in half the time, I guess.  But I don't get home until 7:00 or later some nights, and our household routine  is a little out of whack.  Ok, a lot out of whack.  Jack hates it.  Someone else brings him home from wrestling every night and sometimes, even at 5:15, there's still no one home. Don't get me wrong - he's no different from any other pre-teen boy when it comes to being home alone. He's all about that.  He just doesn't like to come home to an empty house. And he told me so.

I'm also going to miss his first two wrestling matches, which wouldn't be such a big deal, if wrestling, like baseball, were something he'd been doing for years. But it's not; this is his first shot at a new sport and I'm going to miss it twice.  Not to mention the two more matches John and I will both miss when we're in Hawaii at the end of the month.  Ouch.

The thing is, I've been kind of a grouchy mom since I started working again, and I think that's what's really bothering him.  I'm not exactly laid back normally, but I'm sure I'm a lot less stressed out and tired than I have been the past two weeks.  I know he feels it.  I mean, I know everyone in my house feels it. I haven't made a very smooth transition back to Mom Who Works Outside the Home.  Tonight, I got upset with him because I was having a party with all my girlfriends - something I'd planned months ago - and he wanted to stay up late since the house was full of people.  John had gone to a friend's house so there I was, trying to negotiate, but ended up getting all grumpy instead.  Now it's 3:30 in the morning and I can't sleep because I feel terrible about the way he went to bed.

Without me.

Mad at me.

I went into his room just now and recovered him with his blankets.  He's taller than I am,  and takes up pretty much that whole double bed, but I know I won't sleep until I tuck my kid in.

All Good Things Must...Change

Photographed in our 'hood by good friend Scott Spanier

I love Halloween.

Love it. 

I've mentioned before how much fun we have in my neighborhood and how crazy it gets with 600+ ghouls and goblins and princesses and super heroes parading up and down our street for one gloriously noisy, non-stop night.   I know, it's not for everybody, but I look forward to it every year.  I happily go to Costco and spend half a week's worth of groceries on candy; John and I go together so we can each pick out different kinds.  He likes to get the stuff that he likes, so he can have the "leftovers" (that's the "one for you, two for me" pile he secretly makes as he hands out the loot).  But I like to get the stuff the kids like, so we'll be a Popular House.  I don't go all-out though; I'm not very competitive.  No full size candy bars or Pop Tarts. (Pop Tarts! Can you imagine?  There wouldn't be any left for the kids if I had 600 of those lying around the house.) Nor do I try to compete with The Best House on the Block: Karma and Randy give out Ding Dongs.  Oh, for Pete's sake. Clearly a desperate ploy to get all the kids to like them.

Unlike some of my less enthusiastic neighbors, the ones who plan a quiet escape every October 31st and leave their porchlights off, I don't complain about the vanloads of kids that are dropped off to roam, sans supervision, from remote neighborhoods. I don't mind that there's a fair amount of garbage to clean up the next day. I don't care that there are parents who come through with infants and you think, "Hey, wait a minute!  That kid doesn't even have teeth. Who's going to eat his candy?" And I'm more amused - in a Jersey Shore kind of way - than I am disgusted and appalled, by the adult Playboy bunnies / Naughty Nurses who cart their toddlers through. The only costume that ever made me cringe, and seriously question parental guidance, was the ten year old boy who came through as a pimp.  A Pimp.  Really?

If you remember from my post a couple years ago, (Lesson Learned) we have a tradition on Halloween to which we must adhere.  John stays home and passes out candy and I do all the costume work, all the picture taking, and all the making sure that the kids have eaten something remotely healthy during the day before they short-circuit their little systems with sugar.  Then, I go out and walk around all evening, with any one of my neighbors who also happens to be carrying a travel mug full of red wine, vaguely keeping an eye on our own children.  And I love it more every year I go.

So you can understand how I've been a little teary eyed lately, as I have resigned myself to the fact that Jack isn't going to change his mind: He's not going trick or treating this year.

He's too old. Or too cool. Or both.

All of a sudden, all of my kids are done with Halloween.  Just like that.  No heads-up last year, no Pay Attention! Take Lots of Pictures! This is Your Last Year!

Just done.

I'm going to a party.

With girls.

* Sigh *

But wait!

God must have known that I wasn't really ready for this, that I wasn't going to cope with this particular End of Childhood Moment as well as other moms might.  Because out of nowhere, Tuesday night, a friend called to ask me if Jack might be able to help her out.  See, her kid is still in Elementary School, and they're having a Haunted House at school on Friday, and they really need middle schoolers to be monsters.

Hello! I get to make a costume? Of course Jack will help! We'll be there!

So, this afternoon, when I got off work 45 minutes late, in a slight panic, I raced home to get him ready.  He was very excited to be a part of this, to be the older kid, the helper, the one who gets to scare all the little guys.  We wrapped him up in cheese cloth and painted his face white until he was a pretty darn good mummy.  We arrived just in time for him to take his place in the Haunted House.  He's The Guide, the one who directs the kids through, then creepily taps their shoulders from behind when they least expect it.  I helped out for a bit, in a school my kids do not attend, and never did. I pretended like I was on the PTA and started taking tickets, at the direction of my friend, just like in the old days.


I left there with a huge smile on my face.  I grinned all the way home, thinking of him in the dark there, his arms stretched out in front of him, having a blast, being the scary mummy for all the little kids.

My kids might be done with Trick or Treating, but none of us is giving up Halloween.

A Night to Remember

I know - crazy to have two posts in one day when I hardly write at all for weeks at a time. But I got the pictures back from the party and I wanted to share :)

Here are a few of my favorites, taken by our fantastic photographer (and good friend!) Kimberly at Kimberly Atkins Photography.

The Venue: The Attic in Sumner

The cake by Maribel at Maribel's Dream Cakes

My Mom, Dad, brother John, and me,  just before we escorted them in 

My Mom and Dad first coming in the door -- crying already! 

My handsome husband John 

Our gorgeous daughter Casey and her friend, Rodolfo

My Mom and her best friend Nancy, whom I adore

My beautiful, dear friends Todd and Shawn, who have adopted my parents as their own

It was hard to get the mic away from my Mom once she got started telling stories...

...and making everyone cry...

...but then she lightened it up by getting my Dad out on the dance floor

and cutting it up to the Rolling Stones with my cousin Patti and my Aunt Jodi

until we were all barefoot and dancing with the DJ.

Fifty years....now that's worth a dance!