Cleansing Breaths on a Stick

I’m a little more calm now, although not anywhere near anything I’d call, you know, peaceful. The good news is, my first profanity-filled political rant also earned me my very first troll, which is a genuine milestone. I’m a real blogger now! He even used the *F* word! I couldn't be more proud.

My Labor Day weekend was busy enough that I didn’t have a lot of time to watch TV coverage, which, I think, is a good thing. We shopped, we went to the Minneapolis Farmers’ Market, we attended family gatherings. And yesterday the Demigoddesses and I spent 8.5 hours at the Great Minnesota Get-Together, during our annual trip to the state fair.

As per tradition, our day took us first to the fish pond at the DNR building, and then through the various animal barns, where we were privileged to hear a rooster crowing competition and I actually paid 50 cents to milk a dairy goat. (I really did.) The pig barn always smells the worst of them all, hands down, but it also boasts the biggest boar at the fair—this year’s winner weighed in at 1,060 pounds—and piglets. Who can resist piglets?

Then we took My Ho to the Agriculture Building for his first ever viewing of crop art. Several works had a surprisingly political slant this year. I had no idea there were so many lefties with a lot of time on their hands in rural Minnesota.



I haven’t seen anything so memorable since the year someone did an interpretation of "The Scream" in seeds. To this day I wonder what inspired that one. Must’ve been a looong winter on the farm.

We rode the chairlift over Machinery Hill and took a tour of a model mobile home, which the Demis decided was much nicer inside than our house, and truly, it was. We collected information on alpaca farming, and with no prompting from me whatsoever, each Demigoddess purchased her very own political button at the DFL booth (such wonderful blue children). My Ho was a remarkably good sport as we visited the L’Oreal tent, and he waited most patiently as the girls and I tried on a variety of new hair colors. We saw fine art and creative arts, and we picked up free pine tree seedlings from the Education Building. They always have the best free crap in the Education Building.

We ate cheese curds, Sweet Martha’s Cookies, and Tom Thumb doughnuts. We ate frozen apple cider, honey ice cream with sunflower seeds, and Fudge Puppies (the delightful chocolate-dipped Belgian waffles on a stick with whipped cream and sprinkles that are my personal favorite state fair delicacy). It really wasn’t as bad as it sounds, because we divided nearly everything four ways, although things got progressively weirder as the day wore on. We ate spaghetti and meatballs on a stick. We ate cheeseburger wontons. Believe it or not, the most appalling item on the day’s menu was not the Reuben on a stick (don’t ask). It was—brace yourself—a deep-fried Twinkie.

It doesn’t taste much different from a regular Twinkie. Go figure.

My very favorite state fair moment came at the end of the day, as we were waiting in line for the River Rapids ride, our traditional last stop before boarding the shuttle bus back to the car. A sign posted at the start advised various individuals not to ride the River Rapids, including pregnant women and people with high blood pressure, motion sickness, or heart, back, or neck problems. Demigoddess the Younger observed aloud, “Head Injury Barbie wouldn’t be able to go on this ride.” I guess it’s a good thing she stayed home.

So it was definitely a state fair to remember, and, aside from a tiny bit of guilt at all the gluttony, I hardly thought about natural disasters or how angry I am at the federal government at all.

But then this morning I was back online, and I read something that made me remember a little. At the risk of this becoming a political blog, I have to post a bit of it, because it makes me want to lay a big fat wet kiss right on Keith Olbermann:

“No one is suggesting that mayors or governors in the afflicted areas, nor the federal government, should be able to stop hurricanes. Lord knows, no one is suggesting that we should ever prioritize levee improvement for a below-sea-level city, ahead of $454 million worth of trophy bridges for the politicians of Alaska.

But, nationally, these are leaders who won re-election last year largely by portraying their opponents as incapable of keeping the country safe. These are leaders who regularly pressure the news media in this country to report the reopening of a school or a power station in Iraq, and defies its citizens not to stand up and cheer. Yet they couldn't even keep one school or power station from being devastated by infrastructure collapse in New Orleans — even though the government had heard all the ‘chatter’ from the scientists and city planners and hurricane centers and some group whose purposes the government couldn't quite discern... a group called The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.

And most chillingly of all, this is the Law and Order and Terror government. It promised protection — or at least amelioration — against all threats: conventional, radiological, or biological.

It has just proved that it cannot save its citizens from a biological weapon called standing water.

Mr. Bush has now twice insisted that, ‘we are not satisfied’ with the response to the manifold tragedies along the Gulf Coast. I wonder which ‘we’ he thinks he's speaking for on this point. Perhaps it's the administration, although we still don't know where some of them are. Anybody seen the Vice President lately? The man whose message this time last year was, 'I'll Protect You, The Other Guy Will Let You Die'?

I don't know which 'we' Mr. Bush meant.

…All that was needed was just a quick "I'm not satisfied with my government's response." Instead of hiding behind phrases like ‘no one could have foreseen,’ had he only remembered Winston Churchill's quote from the 1930's. ‘The responsibility,’ of government, Churchill told the British Parliament ‘for the public safety is absolute and requires no mandate. It is in fact, the prime object for which governments come into existence.’

In forgetting that, the current administration did not merely damage itself — it damaged our confidence in our ability to rely on whoever is in the White House.”

Thank God...

...SOMEONE is doing SOMETHING.

I'm sure there are lots more stories like this out there. Thank God for you and people like you.

Not Acceptable

BUSH TERMS RELIEF EFFORTS 'NOT ACCEPTABLE'
Associated Press
September 2, 2005 KAT0903.BUSH
WASHINGTON — President Bush, facing blistering criticism for his administration's response to Hurricane Katrina, said Friday "the results are not acceptable.''

No fucking shit, Sherlock.

Up until last night, I intentionally did not watch any coverage of the Katrina aftermath, not out of denial, but out of self-preservation. I knew it would simultaneously break my heart and whip me into a rage of epic proportions. Last night’s "Prime Time" special on NBC proved me right.

There have been many occasions on which I have wanted to choke the Texas accent out of our fine president with my bare hands, but every one of them pales in comparison to this.

Because this:

is what happens when you cut infrastructure funding.

This:

is what happens when a disaster strikes while the NATIONAL guard has been sent half a world away to fucking IRAQ.

This:

is what happens when you allow corporate greed to destroy the environment’s natural protections.

And this:

Is what happens when you try to run the country while on vacation in goddam Texas.

People are really and truly dying of dehydration on the streets of 21st-century America. What exactly is it going to take for this administration to get its head out of its collective ass?

Head Trauma Barbie

It seems that during the waning days of summer, the Demigoddsses have been filling their time playing a little game called "Barbie Modeling School."

As I understand the story, one of the Barbies who attends the modeling school recently got mad at another of the Barbie students over some kind of fashion faux-pas. A Barbie girl-fight ensued, during which one Barbie was knocked into a wall, breaking an ankle and causing a severe head injury.

But the injured Barbie, she is bravely on the road to recovery.

Do I not have the coolest kids ever?

Farewell to Mr Badger

It appears that Mr. Badger’s year-long battle with cancer ended yesterday. My heartfelt condolences go out to Mrs. Badger and her son. I can only imagine the depths of their grief.

The American healthcare system has left Mrs. Badger without her husband, lover, and best friend. It has left her 12-year-old son without his dad. It has also left them both with an enormous debt load from medical bills.

Donations to the Badger Fund made it possible for the family to afford hospice care, which allowed Mr. Badger to spend his last days at home with his family. Contributions to the fund will continue to be gratefully accepted.

Academic Coach has also volunteered to forward sympathy cards to the Badgers.

Doggie Karma

Karma (Sanskrit: from the root kri, "to do", meaning deed) or Kamma (Pali: meaning action, effect, destiny). In Hinduism and, later, Buddhism, it is the sum of a person's actions, regarded as determining that person's future states of existence.

Yesterday afternoon I was in the Cub Foods parking lot, loading groceries into my car, when my cell phone rang. It was Demigoddess the Younger, and she was most upset.

“There’s a dog in our yard and it got in a fight with Emmylou and she’s bleeding!”

“Bring her inside,” I said.

“We CAN’T, the dog is on the deck and he keeps trying to come inside! Lou is in the bushes and she’s whining! What should we do?”

“I don’t know. Don’t do anything. I’ll be home in a minute.”

Adrenaline overload makes following the rules of the road a real challenge. I had visions of a crazed, rabid cur mutilating my dog and then trying to eat my children. (WHY do there have to be so damn many people out driving around on Sunday afternoons??)

When I arrived home a few minutes later, I left the groceries in the car and ran to the backyard. My dog was still on her tie-out, which was tangled in the bushes, so she couldn’t go anywhere. She was bleeding from one small scrape on her shoulder, but didn’t seem to be damaged too badly.

The attacker was still on our deck. He was the thickest, meatiest example of a dog I have ever seen in my life. Set low and nothing but muscle, with cropped ears and yellowish eyes, I’m quite sure he was at least part pit bull. He looked like he had been hacked from a slab of granite, with a head like a cinder block. He sat there and looked at me, grinning a mouthful of scary-ass teeth and wagging his tail. The Demigoddesses were sitting on either side of him.

“He’s actually really nice!” Demi the Younger chirped.

The dog continued wagging as I checked his tag, wrote down the number listed on it, tied him up and then called the owners. A few minutes later an enormous guy in a red Mustang pulled up. I told him that his dog and mine had gotten into a little bit of a scrap, and confirmed that beefy dog had had all of his shots, which he had, because, apparently, beefy dog escapes a LOT. Then the guy leaned over the dog, put his arms under the its forelegs and hoisted the animal into the air from behind. He toted him to the car like that, threw him in, and drove away.

I guess I could have given the guy an earful. I probably should have. But as I was writing down the man’s name and phone number, just in case I should need it later, I couldn’t help but remember our little poodle incident from last month.

I guess it just goes to show that, just when you think you’re a real badass, there’s always a bigger dog not far down the road who’ll be happy to show you otherwise.

Poodle lady never did call me, and I guess maybe that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to give Mustang guy a hard time.

Karma, you know.

Not Exactly Ward Cleaver, But I'll Take It

Yesterday afternoon, out of the blue, the ex called for the Demigoddesses, just to say hi and chat a little.

It's a small thing, but it's something.

And So it Begins

School starts in six days and I am already having anxiety.

Monday night I attended a parents’ meeting for Demigoddess the Elder’s debate team. Wednesday and Thursday nights were “back-to-school” nights at the junior high for the seventh and eighth grades, respectively. Next Tuesday Demigoddess the Younger will be attending orientation in the morning, and school starts for real on Thursday. Girl Scouts will fire up soon after that.

Right. Got it. Fine… except that I can’t seem to remember ANYTHING.

Last weekend when my mom asked me to pick her up from the airport on Wednesday night, I said “Sure! No problem!” Then, the next morning (after she had already left for New York), I remembered that, after a considerable amount of wrangling and running around, My Ho had acquired tickets to Wednesday night’s baseball game. I managed to work everything out, but not without the usual share of teeth-gnashing and garment-rending.

After three months of relatively unstructured summer days, I had somehow forgotten that perpetual gnawing twinge in the pit of my stomach, the one that says I think I’m supposed to be somewhere very soon, but I can’t remember exactly where, and I can’t remember exactly when, and I can’t remember how much it’s going to cost me or whose children I’m supposed to pick up on the way.

It’s all coming back to me now.

I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to be one of those giant four-color wall calendar moms. I live in the suburbs, yes, but I’ve managed to get this far without a minivan or involving the children in soccer of any kind. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those.) Call it a last, desperate attempt at coolness, call me an adrenaline junkie who is addicted to life on the edge, call it a case of tiny-kitchen-itis (there’s nowhere to hang one anyway)… I just can’t do the jumbo-sized calendar and colored-pen-for-each-member-of-the-family thing.

So at Target last night, I saw the Franklin (gack) Covey planners on sale and, with a sigh, threw one in the cart. Somewhere between there and the school supplies (inexplicably, after six trips through three different Targets, we still needed a binder and some folders), it occurred to me that I ALREADY HAVE a Franklin Covey planner.

I vaguely remembered receiving it through work last fall, and getting as far as the “inspiring, thought-provoking quotes from past and present leaders,” which were kindly included on EVERY FREAKING PAGE, before the nausea forced me to put the thing away… somewhere.

I unearthed it without too much trouble, but a quick thumb through made it clear that there was going to have to be some thinning.

I removed the calendar pages through the end of August, since, you know, I won’t be needing those any more.

I removed the “Roles” page (Who are four people who are important to you? Um… Ben & Jerry, Ron Gardenhire, and whoever invented Costco?).

I removed the “Renewal” page (Call each member of your family during the month. Read a book. Attend religious services of your choice. Good morning, I’m not all that into God or anything, but my Franklin Covey Planner told me to come, so here I am!).

I removed the 2009 and 2010 "Future Planning" pages (are you kidding me?).

What I have left is an oversized, faux-leather bound daily planner that, while not the four-color wall calendar, still feels like something of a defeat.

“The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.”--Alfred Lord Tennyson

I SO Deserve a Raise

Last weekend on PBS I caught a little bit of one of those motivational speakers they sometimes show during pledge week. This one featured a woman speaking to an auditorium full of people on the subject of improving their time management skills.

She said that when we are working and the phone rings, if we stop to answer it, deal with whatever issue the caller has, and then go back to work, the whole process takes an average of about 11 minutes (I can’t remember the exact number, but it was something like that).

She also said that, when the phone rings while we are working, if we let the call go to voicemail, finish what we’re doing before listening to the caller’s message, and then call the person back to deal with whatever issue they were calling about, the whole process takes an average of 8 minutes.

So all this time I have been ignoring the ringing phone on my desk, I thought it was out of laziness and a borderline anti-social personality. But now it seems that I have been being an INCREDIBLY EFFICIENT employee all along!

Yay for ME!

Pushing Rocks Uphill

Since Monday, I’ve been involved in an ongoing e-mail exchange with my ex. I use the word “exchange” loosely, it’s really somewhere in the neighborhood of an argument/lecture/airing of grievances that started with one simple question:

“Are you planning to have the kids for Labor Day weekend?”

His response, of course, was “no.”

He has lots of reasons for saying no, which he has outlined for me in a number of subsequent e-mails. Somehow, though, they all sound like very convenient rationalizations to me.

He says he thinks the kids understand his "conscious decision" to leave his "old life" behind and start a new one that doesn’t appear to include them. I think he’s very, very wrong about that.

And the thing of it is, I suspect that the only reason he keeps responding to my e-mails is that, deep down, he's not really buying any of his bullshit, either.

Badger Update

Last week I found this and was moved to make a contribution.

Dr. Academic has kindly posted an update.

I have seen firsthand what cancer can do to a family, and I know what it’s like to try and take care of kids when you don’t know where the grocery money is going to come from. The Badgers have been in my heart ever since I read their story.

I’ll continue posting links to the updates.

In-Laws Faux Pas

Yesterday was my niece Maggie’s first birthday, and my sister Meghan put together a lovely party in her backyard. There was food, there was cake, there were relations from both sides of the family, and piles of gifts.

One of the gifts was an electronic toy that had a screen with a little car inside, and there was a big plastic steering wheel below the screen to steer the little car back and forth as it drove along a curvy pretend road, which had pictures of buildings and trees along each side. I watched one of my sister’s in-laws steer the little car off the road, over the pictures of the buildings and trees, back onto the road, then off again and over the buildings and trees on the other side.

I said, “You know what that is? That’s baby Grand Theft Auto! Look! She just ran over a cop! And there’s the little hooker you can pick up!”

I thought it was funny. My sisters thought it was funny. Meghan’s religious conservative in-laws? Mmmmm, not so much.

Their lips weren't moving, but I'm pretty sure I could hear them praying for me in their heads.

Thanks! I Needed That!

Every once in a while, the fates will dole out a little dope slap.

A former neighbor, whom I hadn’t seen in two years, appeared out of the blue a few days ago (there seems to be a lot of that happening lately...). Her daughter and my girls had been good friends, and had spent a lot of time together before their family moved to another suburb. We kept in touch for a while after their move, but my last interaction with this woman had been a little bit tense. So I was mildly surprised when she seemed very, very glad to see me. She gave me a great big hug, even.

After the initial, “So good to see you! How have you been!” intro round, she cut quickly to the chase. She confided that her husband has finally agreed to go to AA, and he will be attending his first meeting this week.

Having lived with an active alcoholic for five years, followed by another five with the same one sober, I know a little bit about alcoholism and twelve-step programs. Long before they moved away, I became pretty sure that this woman’s husband was a candidate for the Bill W. club. Years ago, I had given her some of my Al-anon literature to read and invited her to a meeting, but she didn’t seem particularly interested at the time. I didn’t press the issue.

When people who need help finally find the courage to ask for it, it always seems like a joyous miracle. But at the same time, I know very well that the journey to that point is almost always long and almost always deeply painful. So her unexpected revelation brought a flood of mixed feelings.

“What happened?” I gasped, although I could imagine.

“It got so much worse,” she said. “What went on when we were living here, that was nothing.”

I nodded. I didn’t need the details. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

The dope slap part of all of this is that just last weekend I told My Ho that I wanted to get back into the routine of attending my weekly Al-anon meetings. Between the second job, him, the Demigoddesses, Friday night baseball games, and life in general, over the past year I have progressed from spotty attendance at meetings to, for the past couple of months, none at all.

For a while there, I was even mulling over the possibility that maybe I was done with Al-anon. Maybe I was tired of going over and over all the old ugliness again and again and again. Maybe I was through defining myself and my life according to the alcoholics I have known. Perhaps it was time to let it go and move on.

But I gave my notice at Old Navy last week (!!!), which means my weekends are mine again. And the reason I brought it up with My Ho was to let him know that my Friday night priority might be changing back to Al-anon meetings, partly to see if he would be cool with that. Of course, he was very supportive.

He asked me why, after almost nine years of meetings, I still felt the need to attend. What I heard myself say was this:

At this point, I know the steps, I know the slogans, I know the literature. I have the tools I’ve learned and I've become pretty good at using them, without even having to think about it much any more. But regular meetings help keep it all fresh and functioning so that I don’t slip back into trouble. And besides that, a very important part of 12-step programs is being there for other people. I have stockpiled a wealth of life experience, hope, and wisdom that I can share with newcomers who need it. But I need to be at meetings for that to happen.

Hello, former neighbor. Thank you for the smack upside the head. (Seriously.)

I invited her to my meeting tonight, and she said she might check it out. She said she has been to a few in her area, but hasn’t found one yet that feels like a good fit. “That’s really great,” I encouraged. “Try a few. You’ll find one.”

I’ll be there tonight, either way.

Blegging

While I know a little bit about how it feels to be in financial trouble, my well-documented woes are nothing compared to a story I just read.

I admit, I can be as naive as they come, so if it's a scam, then I've been scammed. But I just made a small contribution to this.

Happy Birthday!

Eleven years ago today, on her very first birthday, Demigoddess the Younger looked like this:


Even then, she was a tiny slave to her emotions. Little could I have imagined what I would be in for when she learned to speak.

Thankfully, in addition to an exhausting flair for the dramatic, the younger Demi was also blessed with a highly-developed sense of humor, so that, just at the point when I’m ready to sell her to the circus, she will say or do something totally unexpected and charming.

The child can just plain crack me up. And her laugh is the most infectious thing I have ever heard.

These days, Ms. Younger looks like this:

That's her getting Johan Santana's Autograph at Twins Fest a few months ago. Not only can she speak, but in this photo (which appeared on the front page of the sports section in our local paper), she's speaking to a Cy Young Award-winning pitcher in his own native SPANISH.

To the best accessorized girl in the soon-to-be seventh grade, who draws such amazing pictures, takes such loving care of the dog, and who certainly does NOT hate taking baths, I say,


I love you!

Almost, But Not Quite, the Meanest Mom Ever

Last night I got involved in yet another tussle with Demigoddess the Younger regarding bathing. It was late. She needed a bath. She said she’d take one tomorrow. I noted that she had said the same thing the night before, and hadn’t managed to take one yet. I also observed that she had become a little… aromatic.

I didn’t say it in a shaming way. I was very nice about it. I said it like you’d tell someone they had spinach in their teeth, or the tag was hanging out the back of their shirt. I was trying to save her from possible future embarrassment.

Still, she got defensive.

“You act like I NEVER take a bath,” she said.

“Well, you don’t, unless I bug you about it.”

“You act like I HATE taking baths!”

“If you enjoyed bathing so much, I wouldn’t have to point out the fact that your armpits are a little stinky.”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO MEAN?”

Then she went and got a towel and some pajamas and stomped toward the bathroom because she was going to SHOW ME.

Through the door I could hear her in there, sighing and splashing and stomping her feet. Stomping her feet in the tub.

I am so mean that I actually make her bathe when she smells bad. Call child protective services. Clearly, I am unfit.

So I turned out the light in my bedroom and tried to be asleep by the time she got out of the tub, because I didn’t particularly want to discuss the issue any more (not to mention the fact that I was weary because I had spent three hours that evening shopping for HER BIRTHDAY PRESENTS). I was not quite there yet when I heard her come out of the bathroom. She paused outside my door. Then the door opened slowly, and, after a moment, in a perfect stage whisper, I heard through the darkness...

“What-EVER.”

(And she isn’t even a teenager yet. I weep for my future with this child.)

Ten minutes later the door opened again. I rolled over as she was taping a piece of paper to the headboard of my bed.

"What is that?" I asked.

"A note."

"Well, let me see."

Written with fruity-scented ink was this.

Apparently I had been forgiven.

“Come here and let me smell you,” I said. So she sat down on the bed, and I pulled her close and loudly sniffed her wet hair.

She smelled like cucumber melon body wash.

Authenticity Guaranteed

The handbag I bought on Ebay arrived while I was in Seattle.

Whenever one buys anything on Ebay, there is a certain element of risk. I understand this. And the seller of this particular item was clear about the fact that it was used merchandise. The listing included several decent photos and a good description, but even so, you never know exactly what you’re getting until you get it. So, when I opened the Priority Mail package, I was hopeful, but prepared for the worst. What I found inside fell somewhere in between.

I probably had set an unrealistic standard by stopping in to the mother of all Nordstrom’s during my Seattle trip, to peruse and admire the items in their handbag department, which included shiny, perfect, brand-new versions of the black Sam bag that I knew would be waiting for me when I got home. The one I unwrapped had clearly been around the block a few times.

Further inspection revealed that, although the inside lining was a little loose, the bag was in good shape overall. It smelled kinda funny, though. And while I’m 90% sure that it is an authentic Kate Spade bag, that pesky 10% of uncertainty nagged at me, even after a treatment with Febreeze had worked its magic.

If it is a fake, I reasoned, it is a good one. I bought it for a third of what they sell for new, so how picky was I really going to be? But still. The not being sure, it bugged me.

Yesterday I had the new (to me) bag with me as I was running a few errands, and it proved to be the perfect size to hold all my necessary items. The straps are just the right length, and it’s easy to carry. So I was warming up to it.

Because it was on the way, I stopped at a grocery store that I don’t normally shop at to pick up a few things, and as I was on my way in, I came face-to-face with one of the more unpleasant episodes from my past, my first post-divorce boyfriend. You know, the one who seems normal at first, but turns out to be a crazy lying alcoholic semi-stalker bastard?

Come on ladies, admit it. All you divorced gals have one of these.

He was pushing a cart full of groceries out of the store, and his gaze was fixed on the cart. I kept my eyes on his face, silently daring him to look up, but he didn’t.

I thought at first that he didn’t recognize me. I haven’t seen him in four years, and since then I’ve lost a lot of weight and changed my hair. I was also wearing sunglasses. But then I remembered that, in addition to being a coward, he was a remarkably good actor, and I ultimately decided that he had seen me after all. He had seen me and understood on sight that I have become a powerful Goddess who could crush him with a look. A Goddess with a Kate Spade handbag. And he was forced to avert his eyes for fear of an agonizing death in the Cub Foods parking lot.

I have chosen to believe in a lot of very self-destructive things in my life, and that guy is one of them. I like to think I have learned to choose better since I had his calls blocked from my home phone.

My new handbag, on the other hand, had my back yesterday. I’m sure I would have been able to shrivel him with a glance even without it, but having Kate Spade under my arm definitely reinforced what was already there. And that felt very real to me.

I think it’s proved its true worth. So I’ve decided to go ahead and believe that this particular handbag is 100% genuine.

Right after one more Febreeze treatment.

Careful. The Mini Bar is Watching.

Somehow, My Ho managed to further cement his status as the Best Boyfriend EVER by booking our Seattle stay in a hotel that can only be described as glorious.

This is where I would like to live for the rest of my life:


And if you can’t find me there, please have my mail forwarded here:


Oh, yeah. That’s marble. I never imagined I was capable of feeling so much love for a bathroom.

In addition to the gorgeous bathroom (which was bigger than my kitchen at home, BTW), our room also had a view of Lake Union, a feather bed that was like sleeping on a cloud, and a silk throw pillow. The mother of all Nordstrom’s was half a block away, and we were within walking distance of Pike Place market and all manner of public transportation to every corner of the city.

The single weird bit about our hotel was the mini bar. The fact that drinking a can of Coke from it would cost $3.75 was scary enough, but even more frightening was the sign hanging on the front of the mini bar, notifying us that there would be a $15 charge if items were removed from the refrigerator for storage of personal items. That’s right. $15 if you take out one of their bottles of Fiji water so that you can try and chill the 79¢ bottle of water you bought at Walgreen’s.

Of course, we discovered this sign AFTER the Walgreen’s water had already been placed in the refrigerator. And when I, in a vain attempt to save ourselves the $15 fee, tried to quick remove our water and replace the Fiji water before anyone noticed, the mini-bar had mysteriously locked itself.

My Ho called down to the front desk and got everything straightened out, and the desk clerk actually sent a mini refrigerator up to our room for us to use during our stay, which was awfully handy. By some black magic, the clerk unlocked the mini bar from the front desk—20 floors below us—but we never touched the thing again. I felt like tiptoeing every time I walked past it.

How did it know? Lasers? Hidden cameras? What?? Can it hear what I’m thinking? Can it see me NAKED??

Anyway, the best part was that our hotel turned out to be the very one in which my beloved Minnesota Twins were also staying. ALL of them. We saw several in the lobby and rode the elevator with Juan Rincon (see numbers 6 and 7 below). My Ho insists that I did not embarrass myself, which, if true, I must credit to the fact that I went all deer-in-the-headlights every time I saw one of their adorable, hunky faces. On Wednesday afternoon, I mustered every ounce of courage and managed to utter to Kyle Lohse in the lobby, “Good luck tonight.” He thanked me very politely on his way out. Then I remembered that he wasn’t even going to be playing that night, further cementing my status as a complete and total DORK.

The best bit of all, though, was another little something I learned in Seattle…

If you’re having a late dinner in the hotel restaurant/bar, and if Mr. Ron Gardenhire happens to come into the very same hotel restaurant/bar after a second straight loss to the freakin’ Mariners, and if he happens to be seated nearby with an entourage of friends… if you ask your server to please bring Mr. Gardenhire another of whatever he is drinking and put it on your bill, the ever gracious Mr. Gardenhire will return the kindness and buy you a drink right back.

Thanks, Gardy!

Things I Learned During My Trip To Seattle

1. Seattle is BEAUTIFUL.

2. The people there are SO NICE!

3. You can get fresh blackberries at Pike Place Market for $4.00 a pint. Yes, I said FOUR freakin' dollars a pint! And Ranier cherries, too! And peaches as big as your head!

4. Mmmmmmmmmmm... Safeco...

5. My Ho and I, we make damn good travel companions.

6. In his regular clothes and in person, Juan "Booberry" Rincon is a very, very pretty human being. He has skin like an angel. And he's much taller than I thought he was.

7. I am physically incapable of speech when I run into professional baseball players in hotel elevators.

8. Mariners fans, they love them some Ichiro. And Kettle Corn.

9. Mainers fans don't like Bret Boone, either.

10. My cousin Tiffany rocks. (But really, I knew that already.) I will never again bug her about moving back to Minneapolis, because I totally get it now.

11. I (heart) halibut.

12. Old Navy stores in Seattle sell exactly the same stuff as the Old Navy stores in Minneapolis.

13. It is possible to spend five days in Seattle without swallowing a single drop of Starbuck's coffee, although it isn't easy.

14. It took a thousand miles and fourteen innings, but my Radke jersey is no longer cursed.

15. Turns out that you can bring knitting needles on a plane if they're plastic.

16. Airplane seats suck.

To be continued...

Westward, Ho!

I keep waiting for the big, horrible, unexpected complication to appear and cause trouble before my Ho and I leave for Seattle on Sunday. So far, it isn’t happening. Weird.

It may well be unprecedented, but I really believe that I. Have. Thought. Of. EVERYTHING.

The bills that need paying have been paid. The mail has been stopped for the week. The health examinations and corresponding forms for the children and the dog have been completed and sent to the camp and the kennel, respectively. Directions and a map to camp have been delivered to the ex-mother-in-law. Work duties have been temporarily reassigned. The laundry is mostly done, and the Demigoddesses have begun packing. Emergency phone numbers have been distributed. I just went to the bank and withdrew more cash than I have seen in one place in a long, long time. The Demis and I will do one last trip to Target today to purchase all the last-minute necessary stuff, and after that we’ll be good to go--them to camp and me to the West Coast. I even gave myself a fresh pedicure last night.

Going on vacation is exhausting.

I’m still trying to figure out what to pack. More specifically, which shoes? The cute ones for going out at night, or the comfortable ones for walking all over during the day? Everyone knows that when it comes to shoes, cute and comfortable are mutually exclusive.

And… the Radke jersey--which is clearly cursed, but will look good on TV when Bert circles us during the games on Monday and Wednesday nights--or the “Lew Ford is My Boyfriend” T-shirt--which I love, but which will be impossible to read on camera?

(Note: I wanted to buy a new jersey for the occasion, but then there was that purse, and sometimes being a grownup is all about making hard choices.)

If I get out there and find that I chose wrong and left something that I want, or packed something I don't… well, I’ll probably just die a painful death, wracked with shame and blistered ugly feet.

At least the knitting needles question has been settled for me. No needles allowed on the airplane. Apparently handicrafts are a serious threat to western civilization as we know it.

(I’m just gonna go ahead and not think about terrorists any more, thanks…)

Take care. I’ll be back.

Reasons I Am All Wobbly and Excited Today

Reason #1: My cousin Tiffany, who lives in Seattle, e-mailed me a list of things that my Ho and I must do and see while we are out there next week. It was a two-page list, including Chinatown and Pike Place Market, ferry rides and buttercream-frosted cupcakes, and sipping sangria in a former brothel. I want to do every one of them.

No... I want to roll around in and gobble up every one of them.

What to pack? I don’t travel, except to our cabin. Packing for that I can do in my sleep, but I don’t think extra batteries and Benadryl antihistamine cream are going to help me on this one. What shoes? Can I bring knitting needles on the plane?

Reason #2: After seven straight losses, my beloved Minnesota Twins brilliantly won against one of Oakland’s better pitchers last night, and my Ho and I were there in person to see it happen. As always, he was keeping score, and I admit that I’m a geek, but it is SO HOT when he does that, especially when we’re mid-conversation and he marks the plays down on the score sheet without even pausing to look at what he’s doing. Yeah. He’s that good.

Reason #3: After doing a little research, I found a very nice used black Kate Spade Sam bag (the standard Kate Spade “starter” bag) on Ebay that I’m pretty sure is not a fake, so I placed a bid that I could almost even afford, and I got it! It will be waiting for me when I get home from Seattle!

My first Kate Spade. I can hardly breathe just thinking about it.


Reason #4: I had a lovely conversation with my ex-mother-in-law last night, during which she disclosed that all of her other children (the four that I didn’t used to be married to) call the universally-hated step-psycho “meat face.” So you see, that “universally-hated” bit is not just me being the spiteful ex-wife. She really is that awful.

Reason #5: Demigoddess the Elder has been kinda sweet on a particular boy since early last year. This is exactly the sort of thing I have been dreading since the day she was born, but (thankya Jeebus) I enthusiastically approve of this one. He’s smart (advanced math), likes baseball, and he’s cute (very clean!). All this week she’s been attending a mini-camp for the school debate team, which she competed on last year. Yesterday, she and Cute Boy had a little one-on-one time preparing arguments together. He held the door for her!

Vicarious wobbly excitement totally counts!

Reason #6: MizzJenny just sent me an e-mail.

How can I be expected to work when I am such a ROCK STAR?

I Tried to Give Him an Out

I said, “Why play against each other? We’d be invincible if we worked as a team.” His sports and politics combined with my movies and pop music would make us a Trivioke force to be reckoned with. We could be unbeatable.

But he declined. Perhaps he thought I was offering because I was afraid I’d lose.

Our rematch at Buffalo Wild Wings went down on Sunday night. I didn’t need any questions about the Little House on the Prairie TV show after all.

Maybe next time my Ho will recognize a generous offer when he sees it.

Kate Spade: Demon Temptress

I have horribly ugly feet. All three of my sisters do, too. Although my sister Meghan is willing to endure intense physical pain in return for being fashionable, I, being the sensible oldest sister, am not. This means that my options when it comes to footwear are sorely limited. I long to wear sassy, strappy, pointy-toed high heels, but I’m forced by nature and genetics (thanks, Dad) to stick with shoes that are more about concealment than personal style.

Sadly, I still love shoes. Love them. I’m quite sure that I’d have a Carrie Bradshaw-esque shoe fetish if only I had been born with size six feet, tiny toes, and dainty ankles. But circumstances being what they are, my accessory affection has been forced to find another object, and that object, it seems, is purses.

The problem, of course, is that (being a discriminating Goddess) the purses I pine for are ridiculously expensive. Even if I had the money, I’d have a hard time (also being the sensible oldest sister) shelling out $1,500 for a Prada handbag, no matter how exquisite the craftsmanship, or how buttery the leather. And don’t even get me started on the Birkin bag. Until I told him so, my Ho had no idea that there was such a purse in the world that could cost thousands of dollars and have Oprah herself on a waiting list. A purse that could have it’s very own episode of "Sex and the City." The holy grail of handbags.

My part-time retail job brings me face-to-face with lots of purses. Some are horrifying, most are totally forgettable. But the store where I work happens to be located in one of the more affluent suburbs of Minneapolis, so occasionally someone comes through my checkout line with a bag that causes a painful longing in my soul.

Last week brought one such handbag to my register. I could only see the back of it—a wicker basket bag, rectangular, with a flat black leather top and leather strap handles—but I could see that it was beautiful. I was in love at first sight. I complimented the customer on it, and even though I was dying to know where it had come from, I resisted the urge to ask. I didn’t want to seem gauche and uncouth as I rang up her two-for-$15 rib-knit tanks.

That bag stayed in my mind all weekend, until a little online research revealed that it was none other than a Kate Spade Venice Basket. A bargain compared to the Birkin, but still well out of my price range. And, lucky for my budget, from her 2002 collection, which means I can’t just pop over to Nordstrom’s and pick one up, anyway. Not that I didn’t find some other tempting lovelies online.

How in the name of all that is good and just in the world can a purse cost $395? It’s just cruel to tease me with such beauty, and then hold it out of my reach. These days, I’m still getting a novel thrill from being able to pay my bills and have money left over for groceries each month (hoo!). Demigoddess the Elder needs braces, my refrigerator keeps creating puddles on the kitchen floor, and I haven’t even seen a bill from my lawyer yet. Even at Ebay prices, a Kate Spade bag is not in the same Federal Reserve district as my budget.

And yet, they haunt me, those bags. They whisper to me in my dreams… “You work hard,” they softly sing, “You deserve it. And you will be so very happy, so fulfilled as a human being, if only you had one of us in your life every day. $395 is not so much money. The children will find food somewhere…”

Hope Goes Down Hard

One of the few redeeming bright spots of my dismal 2004 was baseball. The Twins were young and cute and full of character, and they were good. I mourned the loss of Doug Mientkiewicz (maybe a little too much), but then the team went and ran away with the AL Central, and then I met Batgirl in person, and she introduced me to my Ho, and then the Twins went to the playoffs, Johan Santana won the American League Cy Young award, and it was all good.

After three disappointing trips to the postseason in three years, 2005 was going to be THE YEAR. My own 2005 started out so great in so many ways that by the time the baseball season started in April, I was convinced that the Twins were going all the way. There was no other way it could be. On the day of the home opener, I was even quoted by the StarTribune saying as much. The only question marks were whether Joe Mauer’s knee would hold out, and who would be playing second base.

Oh, innocent times.

Part of the problem is that I am a person who will give the benefit of the doubt, who will cling to any shred of hope, for far longer than is reasonable. It’s the reason I stayed in a ten-year marriage for nine years too many. It’s the reason I will wander around Cub Foods for 30 minutes after the manager has told me that this particular store does not carry the bag of licorice I want, because I am sure that if I search long and hard enough, I can will it to appear. Somewhere.

Even when, deep down in my heart, I know what the reality is, on some level I sincerely believe that somehow, if I just hope hard enough, reality will fall in line. A miracle will happen. And every once in a while, it does.

But mostly, it doesn’t. And those moments when I finally understand that it’s over are brilliant examples of genuine human misery.

This was one of those moments:



Torii Hunter’s face expresses all the heartbreak that was happening on my couch on Friday night, as I sat watching my last fading ember of hope being driven out of Fenway Park on the back of a cart.

Oh, yes.

There was weeping.

WTF

I can’t write anything today. I’m about to head into day three of a three-day work meeting (the kind that happens in a big 'ole hotel meeting room), and there’s nothing in my head but bullet points and three-letter abbreviations.

Because the OAC and the COAC have all convened to discuss how to best allocate the NAF toward the most impactful TRPs and LRM (including CMN) in each of the DAAs, to try and maximize our ROI and thereby continue increasing SRS in Q3 and Q4, with the help of the FMMs, the RCs and the ROs in each area.

I’m trapped in a PowerPoint nightmare, and I can’t understand a thing anyone is saying.

Foods that Nature Never Intended

I found something interesting in my refrigerator last night. It appeared to be a partially-eaten blueberry bagel, which had been sliced through the middle and spread with… something.

I said to Demigoddess the Younger, “Is this a blueberry bagel with chocolate frosting?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Why? Why would you think that would taste good?”

“Um, there’s cream cheese on it, too.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. It was pretty disgusting.”

“I can imagine that it was.”

The obvious next question was why, once she had established that a blueberry bagel with chocolate frosting and cream cheese is, in fact, disgusting, why had she bothered to put the uneaten half into a Ziploc bag, and then into the refrigerator? Was she thinking she’d give it another try later? Was she thinking that maybe someone else would want to eat it?

Logic in the mind of an 11-year-old is a strange and mysterious thing.

And speaking of strange and mysterious things, her bagel sandwich was not the only surprise I found in my fridge last night. The second one had been deposited there by my Ho, who came over for dinner and had generously brought along a few contributions for the evening meal.

You know those doughnut-shaped plastic containers that they sell in the deli section of the grocery store, the ones that contain that rainbow-colored Jell-O fluff stuff?

Yup. In my fridge.

At first I thought it must be a joke. Only, what if it wasn’t? A million wise cracks about nuclear waste and trailer parks were fighting for position on the tip of my tongue, but what if this stuff is one of his favorite foods? To make fun of a person's favorite food would be mean. But… can I really date a man who could love… rainbow parfait?

“What is that?” Demigoddess the Elder asked as I put it on the table.

“It’s… some kind of Jell-O stuff.”

“Is it good?”

"I don’t know. I’ve never actually eaten it before.”

I’ve seen it before, of course. It’s hard to miss, what with being all rainbow colored and everything. I’ve seen it there in the refrigerated deli case and thought to myself, “Ugh. Who buys that stuff?”

It’s the same thought I have when I see Hamburger Helper and purple ketchup and that Kool-Aid that is supposed to taste cold when it isn’t (tingly!).

Well, I now know who buys the fluff, anyway. My Ho does.

As it turns out, the red part is not so bad. I draw the line at the green, though. I’m not going there. Not even for love.

But No Scurvy

Apparently the gauntlet has been thrown down. My Ho has taken issue with my recent assertion that I would have won our Trivioke challenge if not for the distractions of Demigoddess the Younger. That question will apparently remain unanswered until our next visit to Buffalo Wild Wings.

Easier to disprove is his claim that he, too, knows all about the Little House on the Prairie TV show.

“Walnut Grove…” he said, as if knowing the name of the town on the show proves anything. Then he added, “Scurvy.”

Oh, no, smart guy. There was no scurvy on Little House.

There were: broken ribs, rabies, a tragic typhus outbreak, lots of alcoholism, frostbite, scarlet fever, appendicitis, a mysterious ailment called “mountain fever,” anthrax, leukemia, several cases of morphine addiction, smallpox, an unnamed blood disease, stroke, influenza, a variety injuries caused by falling off of or being kicked by horses, illiteracy, racism, rape, greed, deadly fires, blindness, one incident of falling in a well (Carrie), and a whole episode’s worth of bizarre and undiagnosed schizophrenic hallucinations (also Carrie: “A-lysssss-aaaaah!”)…

But NO SCURVY.

Look it up.

Things are Good and It's Freaking Me Out

I just made a reservation to board my dog because I am taking a trip.

A real trip.

A trip that requires taking an airplane to a city I’ve never visited before and staying in a hotel for five days (five days!).

Airplane rides and corresponding hotel stays have happened only four times previously in my entire life, and the last time was five years ago. That time I went east. This time I am going west.

As of right now, the farthest west I have ever been is Waconia, Minnesota, and since I live in Minneapolis, that is not really very far west at all. But in two weeks my Ho and I will be taking a trip to Seattle, and THAT is about as far west as a person can go and still be in the country.

My fabulous cousin Tiffany (the eldest of my sister-cousins) lives in Seattle, and we will be seeing her while we are there. Tiffany happens to have a friend who works for the Seattle Mariners, who happen to be hosting my kinda stinky but nonetheless beloved Minnesota Twins in a three-game series at the VERY SAME TIME that we will be there. What an amazing coincidence.

Mmmmmm. Outdoor baseball.

Now Tiff will be able to stop complaining that no one in the family ever comes to visit her.

While I am touring the space needle and smiling at the harbor seals on Puget sound, the Demigoddesses will be at sleep-away camp, thanks to their grandma (the one who is not my mother, and who is much, MUCH nicer than her son). She not only volunteered to pay for the Demis to go to camp, where they will have such a wonderful time swimming and riding horses that they won't even notice that I am on the other side of the continent, but she also will be handling the two-hour round trip that will deliver my children to said camp. She is an exceptionally kind ex-mother-in-law.

Even knowing all of this good stuff, however, up until Saturday afternoon, I was having some anxiety because money is still a little bit tight. The agreement that my ex and I recently came to has not been signed and filed yet, so I was not counting on anything from him until everything was officially in place. And even though there are frequent flyer miles being used, and my Ho appears to have magical powers when it comes to finding bargain travel arrangements, I was worried about fitting such a flagrant extravagance into my budget. But when I came home from my shift at Old Navy on Saturday, there was a check from the ex in my mailbox. I had to read it three times to comprehend what I was seeing.

I went directly to the bank and deposited that check. Then I went to Costco and bought new glasses for Demigoddess the Elder, who has been wearing broken frames for over a year. After that, we went to my Ho’s house to watch the baseball game, during which I told him about the check, and about the glasses, and while I was telling him that now, not only will I be able to take our Seattle trip without guilt, but I will also be able to give Demigoddess the Younger a nice birthday next month, out of NOWHERE I broke down and started to bawl.

Sometimes the relief just sneaks up on you like that.

Two Fer

Last night my Ho and his Youngster invited the Demigoddesses and me to meet them at a sports bar/restaurant for dinner, where I discovered these delightful little morsels known as “Buffalo Wings.” Oh, my delectable boneless honey barbecue lovelies, why-oh-why did I not find you sooner?

I realize I’m way behind the curve on this one, but I’ve never been much of hanger-outer in sports bars. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

Luckily for my scale, I had gone for a run earlier (and yes, it went much better this time), so, while there is some residual food guilt, it is minor. And BTW, whoever it was who said that exercise makes you less hungry was a damn liar.

In addition to having dinner, we were there to watch the Twins game, but it seemed that every time I glanced at the giant screen my beloveds were another three—no, six—runs behind Detroit (Detroit! Holy Mary blessed mother of all sucky-ass baseball, have mercy on our poor Twins fan souls), and I instead turned my attention to the second of the evening’s happy discoveries—a little thing called Trivioke, which is an insidious on-screen electronic trivia game.

It is unfortunately true that this Goddess does, on occasion, get the teensiest, tiniest bit competitive. And although my Ho insists that he finds it quite attractive, most days I try not to inflict this particular aspect of my personality on people I actually like and would prefer not to inflict psychological damage upon. Which is why I will no longer play Monopoly with the Demigoddess, and try to limit myself to computer games. The computer does not end up with damaged self-esteem when I completely crush its feeble pixels and then laugh—HA HA HA!

But people, they sometimes do, and then I feel remorse, and that just sucks all the fun out of gloating over a glorious victory.

I should have known better, but I was still a little giddy over my culinary discovery (all that spicy honey barbecue had gone straight to my head). And then there were these cunning little keypad controllers that the players were using to electronically enter their answers as the trivia questions appeared on screen. And the scores were on screen, too, for everyone to see. And the song that Dr. Bricker on the Love Boat played in his cabin when he had a woman in there was TOTALLY Bolero! Somebody! Get me one of those buttony things!!

My Ho and the Youngster each had their own controller. The Demis and I were a team. Each of us won at least one round, while the Youngster ended up winning the overall game. But that was only because I missed a few questions while I was distracted by yelling at Demigoddess the Younger for touching me and/or the controller while I was TRYING TO PLAY THE GAME!!

I decided that the fun is really over when one begins snapping at the children. So in the end, I turned the controller over to her.

If not for that, I SO would have won.

Crayola Bombs

"Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air - explode softly - and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth - boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn't go cheap, either - not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination."
~Robert Fulghum

Here are some of my Crayola Bombs, in the form of bears for the Mother Bear Project:





Do something nice for somebody this weekend. Do something kind for somebody you don't know, who doesn't know you. It doesn't have to be a big thing. Just do something.

"One little person, giving all of her time to peace, makes news. Many people, giving some of their time, can make history."
~Peace Pilgrim

Sweat and Loathing in the Suburbs

I was feeling a little bit cocky after Monday’s run. The air temperature on that day had cooled to about 78 degrees, and after two off days (because last weekend I worked both days at Old Navy, which so counts as a cardio workout), on Monday my run had gone well and I felt strong. When I left the house last night, I thought I might even be able to up my distance a little.

Well, the temperature and the humidity were both back up there yesterday. At first it wasn’t bad, because there was a breeze, and my delusions held me aloft for a little while. Before long, though, it started to feel like I was running through pea soup. Halfway through, I was soaked head to foot and having trouble seeing because the salt was stinging my eyes. The air was too heavy to breathe. My run had become a war, and I was losing.

While I waited at an intersection to cross the street, a woman and her daughter on bikes paused to ask if the trail we were on would cross the highway soon. I said there was a bridge just up ahead. As the two of them took off on their bikes again, the woman turned around to ask me over her shoulder, “Are you drinking plenty of water?” I showed her my water bottle to prove that I wasn’t really about to collapse in a sweaty heap. It only looked that way.

I tried to continue running, but by then it was all over. I hated this soggy bulk of a body. I could not shake the infuriating weight of the ground off my feet. It wouldn’t let me go, and I hated it, too.

Toward the end of my “run,” which had turned into more of a “swamped plodding,” a tiny brown bird was hopping along the sidewalk in front of me. I wanted its weightless little body. Or, at the very least, I wanted to crush its weightless little body under my leaden foot.

Of course, actually pulling that off would have required a measure of quickness on my part, and at that point, the swamped plodding was the best I was going to muster.

Maybe one of the neighborhood cats will get the little mocking bastard.

Reason #931 That There Will Be Lots of Expensive Therapy

4:27 a.m.
My Bed

Me: Hey.

Demigoddess The Younger: What?

Me: Why are you in my bed and why are you kicking me?

DGY: The dog. She’s too wiggly.

Me: Well then put her in her kennel and let me sleep. Jee-zus.

(Guilt)

(Guilt)

(Guilt)

Close Encounters of the Ex Kind

The heat around these parts has been as relentlessly oppressive as the Twins’ prolonged period of suckage. Sunday started out stiflingly hot once again, but by dinnertime the sky had clouded over and a light rain was sprinkling as my Ho and I sat outside on the deck behind his house, cooking brats on the grill and talking about relationships and money and other grown-up stuff.

Last Friday was a momentous day for my Ho, as he and his ex signed their final divorce papers that day. His moniker for her has officially changed from “The Soon-to-Be” to “Ex-ina.” (I think I have heard him use her actual name a total of twice.)

For those of you who are a little slow on the uptake, yes, technically my Ho and I started dating before he was 100% divorced. Believe me, I have experienced a great deal of psychic distress over that fact. By the time he and I met, I had seen so many men dive into astonishingly inappropriate relationships on the heels of their marriages breaking up (my own ex enthusiastically included), and I had been so very outspoken on the subject of “those women”--the ones the men in question had hooked up with--that the thought of becoming one of “those women” myself was intolerable to me. This guy was a walking red flag and I totally wasn’t going there.

…Except that he came highly recommended by a friend whose opinion I trust a great deal, and there was clearly no chance for reconciliation in his marriage, and then there was that whole Google thing. Apparently I needed a little more proof that God has a sense of humor, and really enjoys having the last laugh.

So, in spite of my better judgment, I went ahead and got emotionally involved. And, although I would still advise any friend against making the same choice, I have not been sorry.

Not that I haven’t had my sketchy moments. Most recently, I freaked out after finding a bottle of Nair in my Ho’s bathroom. For some reason, I could forgive the lavender-scented aromatherapy spray that had been in a basket on the back of the toilet since my first visit to his house, but that Nair bottle inexplicably sent me over the edge. I let loose with a rant about how it was totally appropriate that he still have things around the house that were hers, since he was, legally, still married, and that I knew I was going to have to find a way to deal with these items since that is part of the package when one makes the choice to date an almost-but-not-quite-divorced man, but that I was really having a hard time at that particular moment. Then I went home. On my next visit, the Nair and the aromatherapy spray had both disappeared.

My Ho is happy that it’s finally over, but, aside from the cake (“Divorce Torte.” Hyuk. Hyuk.), we haven’t been overly celebratory. Divorce is a painful process. The end of a marriage is a sad thing, even if it truly is better for all involved. So our conversation on the deck on Sunday evening was hopeful but subdued.

I was aware that “Ex-ina” would be bringing their son by to drop off something, but I assumed they’d come to the front of the house. I was tending the grill when her car pulled into the driveway behind me, and for a moment, I froze.

There I was, barbecuing on the deck of this woman’s house with this woman’s husband on a Sunday evening like I was some kind of Harriet to his Ozzie, and what the hell right did I have? I was overwhelmed by an urge to run into the house and hide.

Then I remembered that the papers have been signed and filed, ten months to the day after she made it clear exactly how she felt about both the house and the marriage by packing up and moving out.

I also remembered that I know a thing or two about how it feels the first time you come face-to-face with the fact that the person you used to be married to is happily in love with someone who isn’t you.

And I remembered that I have learned a great deal about how not to behave, thanks to the universally hated Step-Psycho.

That’s when I knew I could be cordial. I could be respectful. I could look her in the eyes and say hi. So, I turned around.

Thankfully, she never got out of the car. And the driveway is far enough away from the house that I couldn’t even see her face behind the windshield.

I hate how much she hurt my Ho, and she and I will never be friends. But at the same time, I’m sort of grateful to her, too. The consensus among those who knew them as a couple appears to be that he is better off without her. And, aside from the occasional Nair-induced breakdown, I think it’s working out pretty well for me, too. So I’ll take a raincheck on the cordial thing. Maybe next time she’ll be ready to get out of the car.

People are SO Interesting

And the world of blogging has taken voyerism to a whole new dimension.

I find THIS fascinating.

Fair Warning for the Boy Toys

It’s not that you guys aren’t super cute and everything. I mean, I appreciate a little eye candy as much as the next Goddess. And I’m sure your Lexus and BMW and Acura and Cadillac would do wonders for my house’s curb appeal, if not for the beer cans and cigarette butts and golf balls that keep finding their way into my yard. But the thing is, I really did not move to the suburbs so that I could live next door to a frat house.

Your midnight barbecues sound like heaps of fun, and as entertaining as it is to watch your little girlfriends skank out of the house in the mornings, here’s a little heads up for y’all: If you wake me up at 3:00 a.m. again, I am going to turn your deck into a flaming inferno.

Oh, and I’ll be very careful to make it look like an alcohol-related barbecue accident, which means you totally won’t get your damage deposit back, so why don’t you go ahead and save me a match and some lighter fluid and CUT IT THE F*CK OUT, ‘kay?

Thanks.

Baby's Got A New Pair of Shoes

My Ho and the Demis helped me pick these out last night. I don't love the color, but they were by far the most comfortable, and they didn't have my size in blue. So, I guess I'll just pretend I'm Blossom from the PowerPuff Girls.

This purchase happened after I went for my first run in over a year. Yeah, it sucked. I went in my old shoes, and it was 90 degrees outside, and by the time I got back, I was pretty sure I was gonna whoopsie. But I didn't.

Like Lambs to the Slaughter

The Demis are both at the junior high this morning. Demigoddess the Younger, who will be entering 7th grade this fall, is having orientation, and Demigoddess the Elder, having attended the junior high last year, will be a sort of student helper, introducing the younger kids to the school, showing them how to open their lockers, where to buy the good pot, how to sneak firearms past the metal detectors, etc.

Demigoddess the Elder’s entry into junior high last fall was a milestone that was much more traumatic for me than it was for her. I think this was mainly because I, having been to junior high, knew what she was in for. She, on the other hand, being tender and innocent, couldn’t possibly imagine the hell that is seventh grade, even without Dipity-Doo, Smurfs, and an album of the year that includes Toto’s timeless hit, “Rosanna.”

Early in the school year last year, in a naive attempt to be a "good parent," I volunteered to help chaperone an event at the junior high. The event was for kids who had sold a certain number of fund-raising magazine subscriptions, and their reward was to be a limousine ride/pizza lunch. Demigoddess the Elder had sold the required number of magazine subscriptions, and I thought it would be fun to go with her. Plus, since I am still bitter that my high school boyfriend made me ride to prom in his mom’s brown Civic hatchback, I figured this was my chance to finally ride in style. Silly, silly me.

Eight or nine limos, of various makes and colors, were lined up in front of the school at lunchtime. Each held a good fifteen kids and two chaperones. As it happened, the one my daughter and her friends ended up in already had chaperones, so I was assigned to a sparkly purple Hummer limo, in which I was immediately pounced on by a mob of pre-teens who apparently had not eaten solid food in days and were willing to kill me to get at the pizza box I was carrying. Overwhelmed, I let the box go without a fight. I never even saw the actual pizza.

The driver took us on a tour through downtown Minneapolis, and then around the lakes, and other places too, but everything sort went black after a while, so I can't remember exactly. The rear of the vehicle had one small window on each side that opened, and there was sort of an upholstered island thing in between them. The majority of the kids—mostly girls wearing tiny clothes, too much makeup, and flip-flops—all piled onto this spot so they could roll down the windows and wave at people and yell at the top of their lungs the lyrics to the hip hop music that seemed to be blaring from every corner of my sparkly purple chariot through hell. These children, they reeked of hormones, and looked like a pile of hyperactive puppies on crack, squirming and screaming and kicking at each other.

A few kids hung back from this hogpile and sat awkwardly in their seats, talking to each other and looking out the windows. This latter group was much more appealing to me, obviously, but they were clearly the minority. From what I can tell, both my kids and most of their friends seem to be of the quieter variety, which, although they probably don't see it as such, I think is a good thing. I remember very clearly being 13 and tormented by the fact that I was not more like those screeching hogpile girls. Although the thought of it now still fills me with pubescent angst, I have learned since then that it’s the quiet kids sitting awkwardly by the windows who will eventually grow up into the most interesting adults.

That night I went home and told Demigoddess the Elder that I had developed an all-new appreciation for the world she lives in every day, and I was very, very sorry. She actually ended up having a great year, full of activities and new friends, and was surprisingly happy for the most part. So, while I’m much less afraid for Demigoddes the Younger than I was for her sister, I don’t believe I’ll be volunteering at the junior high again any time soon. I think I still have some residual brain damage.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

Two summers ago at this time, my sister Meghan was a few weeks away from getting married. In preparation for the whole bridesmaid thing, at the beginning of the year I had started a get-in-shape routine in earnest. Meghan, who has run the Twin Cities Marathon about six times now, had somehow talked me into signing up to run a half marathon, in spite of the fact that when I registered for the race in March, I literally could not run around the block. But I was committed to doing it, and by July 2003, I could run around Lake Calhoun three times in a row.

I had joined an online diet support group that proved to be the keystone of my new fitness regimen, and as a result had dropped from the plus-size department to the “normal” size women’s department. I was taking writing classes. I wasn’t dating anybody, and I actually kind of liked it that way. My financial situation was beginning to get a little sketchy, but I was optimistic that things would improve soon. I completed the half marathon (verrrrry slowly), and the wedding, it was just beautiful. When I look back on that summer, what I remember most is how great it felt to be outside in the sunshine, running around the lake, seeing the people and the dogs and the sun on the water, feeling strong and amazed that I was actually pulling it off. Who knew?

A year later, everything had changed. The ex had stopped paying child support and had made it clear he wouldn’t be paying any time soon. I gave up the writing classes, and then the online support group when I could no longer afford the dues, or even Internet access, for that matter. My running shoes needed replacing, but the $100 it would cost to buy new ones was absolutely out of the question. So I gave up running, too.

I held on as long as I possibly could, but in the end it came down to a choice between two extremely unattractive options. Either I could sell my house, give away my dogs and move my kids into a rental unit, or I could file chapter 7 bankruptcy. I chose to keep the house, which, a lot of the time, felt like I had chosen to stick my head in a noose and was now standing there waiting for the chair to be kicked out from under me. What I remember about last July is the relentless feeling of desperation that I lived with 24/7. The summer before seemed like a different lifetime. I was on the verge of total surrender. A half-step from hopeless.

So in September I bit the bullet and started working at Old Navy. In October I changed positions at my full-time job to one with much more opportunity, if not more money. By Christmas, my Ho and I had become surprisingly tight, and when he and I toasted the new year, I was not unhappy to kiss 2004 on the ass on its way out. The Demigoddesses had proved to be much more self-sufficient than I had given them credit for. I had a lawyer and a court date, and I had learned a few things about getting by.

When spring arrived, I was working both jobs and shuttling the Demigoddesses to and from wherever their various activities required them to be. My ex had moved away with his new wife, so my girls were seeing their dad only sporadically (and when they did, they frequently came home upset and crying, but don't get me started). Breaks for me were few and far between, and although I still had to be very careful about money, overall, things had come a hell of a long way toward better. I could have afforded to buy a new pair of running shoes, and thought about it. But there was simply no time. My days were fuller than full, and anyway, my left foot had been giving me some painful trouble.

By the time I wrote this post, I didn’t really even need the child support any more. Relations with my ex had changed from desperation to a matter of principle. My kids are entitled to support from their father—financial and emotional. The unfortunate awareness that I can’t do a thing about his deficits in the emotional department had made me that much more dedicated to making damn sure that the financial piece, at least, would happen. Which is why I declined the “deal” he came up with after I wrote that post. He was fairly annoyed about that. He balked at the counter-offer I proposed. And then, just when I thought we were finally headed for court once and for all, yesterday afternoon we reached a compromise. The papers are being drawn up right this minute.

Rather than feeling relieved, though, I spent most of last evening feeling anxious. Had I done the best I could do? Were my kids really getting everything they were entitled to? Should I have fought harder and held out longer? Even the happy thought of submitting my two-week notice at Old Navy didn’t help, and I went to bed feeling unsure.

But last night, I dreamed I was running. I woke up this morning feeling at peace. And now it appears that the problems I was having with my foot are gone. I think it’s really over.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that rock I'm clinging...
Since love is lord of heaven and Earth,
How can I keep from singing?

I think I'm going shoe shopping.

Cancer is the New Black

Everyone has a few people in their lives whom they can’t imagine the world without. I am lucky enough to have a lot of them. Obviously, my kids are on the list, as are my parents, my three sisters, and my sister’s baby and, lately, My Ho.

Also on the list are four cousins who are like sisters to me. We grew up together, had sleepovers at each other’s houses, took family vacations together. When one of the four, Shanna, first arrived at college, her new dorm mates played one of those dopey getting to know you games in which each person was to tell the rest of the group two things about themselves that were true, and one thing that was a lie. Everyone was supposed to try and guess which statement was the untruth. Shanna told the group that she had seven sisters, and she gave the names of each of us—her three actual sisters, and my three sisters and me—in such rapid succession that all of her dorm-mates were fooled. Personally, I think she kind of cheated, since it wasn't exactly a LIE, but whatever.

Another person who certainly qualifies is the mother of my four sister-cousins, my aunt Karen. She is probably the most capable woman I know. She can fix just about anything. She gardens like a pro. She can always be counted on for stellar Christmas gifts, and she tirelessly served as my occasionally high-maintenance grandma’s on-call assistant for years. And she did it all on her own terms, without any fanfare.

I have been doing the single parent thing with the Demigoddesses for about four years now, and there have been days when the strain of trying to keep it all together has nearly killed me. Literally. Karen pulled it off for ten years after my uncle passed away, with twice as many children, and if she ever broke a sweat, none of us ever saw it. In fact, Karen has been such a steadfast presence in my life that when she was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, it took a while for me to comprehend the possibility that she could ever be anything other than the fiercely independent, self-sufficient person that she has always been.

She had surgery not too long ago, and is currently undergoing chemotherapy. Throughout this ordeal, she has been incredibly honest about her struggles, both physical and emotional, which, frankly, has surprised me a little bit. But her openness during this crisis has given me an all-new appreciation for the quiet fortitude that I have taken for granted until now.

Last week at the lake, Karen spent most of the trip inside, resting and reading. She has acquired an assortment of attractive bandanas and scarves that she has been wearing over her disappearing hair, and at one point I commented that the one she was wearing that day was especially pretty. She shrugged off the comment, saying that they were just dumb old bandanas, but she can’t bring herself to put on a wig just yet. I suggested that she go natural like Melissa Etheridge at the Grammy Awards show, because, after all, between her and Lance Armstrong, Cancer is almost cool these days.

I don’t think she was sold.

Karen, I don’t care what you see when you look in the mirror lately. You are beautiful and I admire you very much.

God Bless the USA

The Fourth of July parade in Marenisco, Michigan (population 1,051), is an annual spectacular that consists mostly of classic cars, firetrucks from the volunteer fire department, and the marching band from the high school two towns over (the school in Marenisco--home of the Marenisco Milltowners, not to be confused with the Watersmeet Nimrods, who hail from about 30 miles farther east down Highway 2--closed a couple of years ago).

When I was little, the highlight of this parade, aside from the candy that was flung by the handful from the posterior ends of the firetrucks, was Smokey the Bear, who always stood, steadfast and waving, in the bed of a pickup truck for the length of the four-block parade route. For many years, I was convinced he was waving at me personally. Sadly, Smokey disappeared a while ago, but the candy-flinging continues to this day.

This was my Ho’s first experience with my family’s traditional Fourth of July festivities. He wanted to change his shirt before going to town, but I assured him that, having most of his own teeth and a shirt with actual sleeves, he would already be well ahead of most of the locals in terms of fashion. So he went ahead with the one he had on.

It all played out just as I told him it would. Our caravan of cars parked in the same spot as always. My dad went across the street to Dutch’s bar to purchase a can of Old Style to go, which they sold him with no questions asked, even though it was 10:45 a.m. The remains of the local VFW wobbled past with their wooden guns. Only one child toppled off of her streamered bicycle. We received a theological lesson in the form of a bible verse (Corinthians, I believe) hand-lettered onto glittery posterboard. Candy was flung, flags were waved, and the whole thing was over in about fifteen minutes. Then we all headed to the town hall for lemonade and free ice cream cones. As my grandma used to like to say, "‘twas ever thus."

Grandma also used to steal our free ice cream cones, but that’s another story.

At dusk we returned to town to watch the fireworks. This involves driving our car onto the football field behind what used to be the Marenisco school, parking on the grass with the rest of the town, and then watching a bunch of guys of questionable sobriety fire pyrotechnics into the sky over our heads from the top of a hill about 100 yards away. By some miracle, to my knowledge, no one has ever been killed during this endeavor. Not yet, anyway.

As she has done in the past, my irreverent and oh-so-witty sister Betsy had brought along her Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits CD especially for the occasion, and as the fireworks began, we set my boombox on top of my car and fired up "They're Coming to America" (Today! Today!). There were moments when it seemed as if the fireworks were choreographed in time with the music. It was... strangely beautiful. And highly amusing, because, as everyone knows, Neil Diamond is ALWAYS funny.

This year, however, there was a new twist. A search through the bowels of my mom’s PT Cruiser had produced a post 9-11 relief CD full of additional patriotic delights, including the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the Star Spangled Banner, Celine Dion’s interpretation of "God Bless America" (I know, she’s Canadian, but America made her rich, so it’s really quite appropriate if you think about it) and, of course, the scourge of the seventh inning stretch, Lee Greenwood’s anthem for every armchair warrior uber-patriot in middle America, "God Bless the USA." Please pass the tissue.

Cousin Donna, who was clearly confused, came to me said, "Do you REALLY like this song?" I reassured her that, no, I hate that song with every fiber of my being. We were being IRONIC.

But it seems that she wasn’t the only one who didn’t get the joke. When the show was over, several locals stopped by our car and thanked us for the wonderful music.

We didn’t bother trying to explain it to them.

Please.

I received this e-mail just now from a cousin who lives just outside of London. I sent her a note this morning to confirm that she and her family are all right, which, thankfully, they are.

“Lovely to hear from you. Yes it is so sad. What a wicked waste of life.

I feel so badly for those with loved ones missing and just not knowing whether they are in hospital or dead.

The atmosphere is very subdued but sadly, even at school there were racial comments made today about arabs that I haven't heard before.

I feel so badly for the muslim community who now feel ill at ease. It's awful but then so are the daily bombings in Iraq.

When will we ever learn?

The area where it all happened is the area where I lived as a student for 1 year so the images were very vivid for me. Russell Square tube station is one of those accessed by an ancient elevator because it is so deep underground and that is where bodies still have to be recovered.

Every now and then I just whell up with emotion.”

Personally, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. our time yesterday morning, which is very unusual for me. I turned on the T.V., thinking I'd find something boring to watch for a little while, and that's when I saw what happened. Needless to say, I didn't ever get back to sleep. There are no words.

The hardest part of all is resisting the powerful temptation to hate them right back.

Please. Please.

Resist.

Words of Wisdom for Demigoddess The Elder

Yes, honey, I agree that it sucks.

In fact, nothing will make you feel like a deformed freak faster than shopping for bras.

Welcome to womanhood, my love.

Please Step Away From the Poodle

We’re back from our annual Fourth of July trip to the cabin. I’ll share about the actual trip later. At the moment, I’m still traumatized by what happened on the way home yesterday.

The Demigoddesses and I had just finished our traditional halfway-point lunch, and were stopped for gas at a Holiday station outside of Duluth. While I filled the tank for the remainder of the drive home, the Demis were inside the station hunting for Tangy Taffy, and EmmyLou, my much-loved pointer, was in the front passenger seat.

Before I go any further, I must point out that Lou is a very sweet, friendly, affectionate dog. She is wonderful with the Demis, and had just spent five days at the lake playing with my parents’ sheltie without any incident. But Lou loves to run, especially after rabbits and squirrels, and has, on occasion, been known to catch small rodents and… er… liquidate them. She also has a tendency to escape, so to ensure that she stayed put during our road trip, she was wearing her Gentle Leader, which was attached to her extension leash, which I had secured to the car by fastening the passenger-side seatbelt through the handle. And just to be safe, when she was buckled in securely, I even locked the leash's extension function.

By the time we arrived in Duluth and I could pick it up on the radio, the Twins game was in its third inning. The fuel was filling, and as I started cleaning the dead bugs off the windshield, I noticed that I couldn’t hear the play-by-play because I had left the power windows rolled all the way up. Not wanting to re-start the car to lower the windows, I opened the driver’s side door a crack, so I could listen while I squeegeed. For a few minutes, everything was fine. The Twins were ahead by two runs, Santana was on the mound, traffic was light, the weather was good, and we would be home in a couple of hours.

I wish I could view a surveillance video of what happened next, because it all went down so fast that I’m not even sure exactly what happened. I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, and then a woman was screaming, and I spun around to see my dog, two pumps over, muzzle to the ground, with a bitty, yelping poodle head sticking out one side, and eensy poodle hind legs wiggling out the other side. Of my dog's MOUTH.

Lou was still attached to my car’s seatbelt via the leash, which was apparently not so much locked after all. I dropped the squeegee and yanked the leash as hard as I could with both hands, yelling at the dog at the same time. She immediately backed off, leaving a tiny, wounded mass of grayish poodle flopping around on the pavement.

After an initial bit of yelling, everyone calmed down fairly quickly as we tried to assess the damage. It turned out that the poodle did not even belong to no-longer-screaming lady, she was only taking care of it, and although her remarkably calm male companion insisted that the wet stuff in the poodle’s fur was only drool from Lou’s mouth (or, froth from her rabid maw, whichever you prefer...), I could see that it was, in fact, blood. Not a lot of blood, but definitely some, and the poor little dog was so terrified that it wouldn’t let me or anyone else touch it to see how deep the wounds were. It was all in a rage now, snapping at the man’s hands as he picked it up and tried to calm it down.

A super-helpful bystander came over and said that the poodle was definitely going to need antibiotics. "Because the only thing dirtier than an animal mouth is a human mouth." Thanks for sharing, super-helpful bystander. Now please shut up before I send Cujo after you, too.

No-longer-screaming lady and her man friend were also on their way back to Minneapolis. She talked about trying to find an emergency vet in Duluth, and although I kept quiet, I silently prayed that I wasn’t going to end up stuck with a multiple-hundred-dollar emergency vet bill. She finally decided to wait and bring the poodle home, and then take it to its regular vet. So we exchanged phone numbers and went on our respective ways.

My hands shook on the steering wheel for most of the rest of the drive home. In my mind, I went over and over every event of the day up to that point, considering all the variables that had to be in place for that moment to have happened exactly the way it did. I wished we had left the cabin just a few minutes earlier, or had taken just a few minutes longer to eat lunch. I wished I had left the car door closed, or had double-checked that the extension leash was, in fact, locked. But, like most regrettable events, it’s hard to pinpoint a single moment at which the poodle’s fate was sealed.

Even after we got home and unpacked the car, I couldn’t get out of my head the image of my cheerful, lovable dog crouched on the ground with an entire poodle writhing in her foaming jaws of death. For a few desperate moments, I even tried to come up with ways in which that poodle had somehow earned it--reasons why it wasn’t really my dog’s fault, and, by extension, my fault. But in the end, the best explanation I could come up with was that the little dog, it simply looked a bit too much like a bunny. Or, maybe a squirrel.

I know I should call and find out if the poodle is all right. But at the moment, the thought of it still makes me nauseous. So, for now, we’re going to be purchasing an old-fashioned, non-extension leash very soon. And, in the future, we’ll be steering the foaming jaws of death way clear of tiny dogs who look like rodents.

(And the baseball game went into the crapper shortly after this all happened, too. Naturally.)