Like I'm Moving

Shopping and Nutrition in Texas

2009-11-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

This morning, I took X to her school, where the choir members are having a Saturday morning pajama party to watch 'Annie,' the musical they will be doing this year. I called the teacher to verify the time and she mentioned she would be picking up snacks at the HEB (local grocery store). I had the same thing in mind, so I told her I'd get her stuff too. X and I walked out of HEB with 5 cases of Capri Sun "juice" drink, 6 packs of popcorn, and 3 tubs of assorted flavored sugary dough. This was added to a collection of soda and cookies, once we arrived at the school.

Baby, we are not in San Francisco anymore! I wanted to say that, but I avoid mentioning the subject around X. But the food police would have been on us in a flash, at even a whiff of half as much sugar. The police-approved breakfast for such an event would have included a fruit tray, perhaps some low sugar granola, cheese sticks and....well, not juice, it doesn't have enough nutritional value. Water to drink, that's a safe one. Except I wonder if they are onto the wastefulness and damage of individual plastic water bottles yet.

I think I'd actually have been happiest with a blend of these meals. A fruit tray would have been good, and most children (unlike mine) will spontaneously eat fruit I could have gotten that. But Brownie Bites called.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love HEB? Well I do. They--the urban location nearest us-- have the friendliest personnel, even for Texas. They have fresh made tortillas every day. They have a lady cutting up nopales fresh in the store, almost every day. They have plenty of stuff for a healthy breakfast, had I chosen to buy one. They have weird deals where if you buy some chicken, you get a free fajita maker. (I have yet to use mine.)

AND They sponsored X's school choir to come and sing Christmas songs at their store last week. (promotional event) AND gave each kid a gift certificate AND the choir got a $500 contribution.

Oh Frabjous Day!

2009-11-06T03:54:00.000-08:00

It is X's birthday. She is 12.

I just stuck birthday notes all over the living room/dining room/kitchen, including the quote from Jabberwocky, above. She quotes that poem all the time, without even meaning too. I will make her the usual heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast. (Usual on her birthday, that is.) She will go off to school with her book report in backpack. She will go sing with the choir at a local supermarket this evening, so no birthday dinner until tomorrow.

Now, the book report is a big deal. She has to do a couple, maybe three, reports per "marking period." Last year, this was torture. Every time she had to write one, I sat with the way overly complex rubric, prompting her to write some sentences about "a conflict, external or internal, and how it was resolved." What saved her last year were her creative book jackets or other artistic expression of the book. She had to write two reports over the summer and it just about killed us both. But for this one, X noted: "And I didn't even break down."

This, of course, after I went to the teacher to make my plea for informal accommodations based on X's difficulties with writing--which I suspected were brain based, although I had not had her tested for any of the vague categorizations such as dysgraphia. The whole incident follows one of those parenting rules: Just when you think you can't stand some condition your child has/is in, just as soon as you are poised to do something about it, the whole thing changes. At least that is the usual case for me. Maybe all we are facing is X's immaturity compared to her classmates. Anyway, the teacher said to call if X was crying over her book report. But....oh frabjous day!...she wasn't!

Grown Up

2009-10-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

When I was home--in my hometown-- this summer, I learned a few things. Among them, I learned that my niece is a grown up. She's 20, so of course, right? But I think being a grown up can hit any time between, say, 15 and 35. Of course some people never get there. But she did--she's at the grown up stage, which is right before adulthood. ( I think being grown up and being an adult are subtly different. Being an adult has to do with discovering how little you know, despite all you have learned---something like that. I think I became an adult around the time X was born, though I don't see parenthood as a prerequisite--at all. And, it's probably more fun to be a grown up.)

Anyway, back to my niece after that parenthetic meander. She's on her own, despite her current residence in her mother's basement. She think of others as well as herself. Now, a boyfriend isn't essential to being grown up, but she has a boyfriend--who can hold a conversation with the family. She invites the boyfriend to family dinners so he is compelled to make that conversation.She takes charge.

My niece spends a lot of time with her Grandmother, my Mom. When we were there, she showed up most every day. She helps out in a lot of ways. She was always up for a trip to the grocery store or the local espresso stand. She plays piano, for her own enjoyment and Mom's. My Mom told me often (often!) that she was very proud of her connection with my niece. She told me about how they formed this bond when my niece was a baby, toddler and preschooler---when my Mom was her main baby sitter. So....all the stuff I said about my sisters in the last post applies to my niece, too, in case you didn't notice.

My niece indulged me this summer, during our visit home. She is teaching herself to play the guitar, in addition to piano and voice, which she has studied. I asked her to learn and play a song for me. And she did! Which was a clear case of caring about others--especially considering what I asked her to play and the kind of music she usually likes. It was an emotional highlight of the summer for me. Guess what I asked for. I bet you can get it right.

At Home with Mom

2009-09-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

I've been messing with the settings on this blog to make that new header look the way I want. Eh, forget it! I want to tell you about my summer. At last.

X, D and I lived at my Mom's house this summer. We had the basement--my childhood bedroom, and the couple other rooms down there--to ourselves. It's a daylight basement and my sisters fixed it up very nicely for us.

Good thing, because I spent a lot of time down there. Just as in my adolescence. But this time, I had work to do. Hunched over my computer, I had meetings over Skype, tried to write papers, wrote memos and emails, and whatever else occupies my workday.

The idea was that we would live there, D and I would work, and then we would run around enjoying the Pacific Northwest. Well, I forgot how adolescence can creep up on you in, um, middle age, when you go home, go to that home. I am not sure what gravity keeps me pulled into the living room, but it is a powerful force. That was part of the experience.

But more to the point...

My Mom has Alzheimers. Without a lot of help from my sisters, she wouldn't still be living in her home. She will, for example, forget what a phone is for or how to use the microwave. She still looks perfect--flawless makeup, outfits with matching necklaces or scarves. We didn't have any big jobs to do for her--my sisters had people lined up for those. We would just keep her company, buy sandwiches and cookies, make sure her clothes matched the weather, take her out to dinner and help her find her keys and her purse. Oh, and take her to Dairy Queen. Mom was really into Dairy Queen this summer. I think I overdid it a bit, myself. OK, I know I did. But it made her so happy when we got Dilly bars or sundaes that I milked that Dairy Queen.

I spent a lot of time talking with my Mom. She liked to talk about the past, although she announced, once, that she was through with the past.

She liked to talk about my Dad. She would ask me if he and I had a good relationship by the time he died. Yes, we did, I told her. It had been rocky when I was a teenager with a mind of my own. My Mom told me that she worked on my Dad, explaining that he was the adult and had to reach out to me. That rebelling was my job. He got the message.

She allowed herself to be the hero in these family stories much more than she used to. But she also told me that her sister and mother had been good cooks and she had been a bad cook. I had never heard that before. Maybe the boundaries between her thoughts and her face to the world are breaking down.

One day she asked me, maybe 25 times, about the age difference between my Dad and her. Of course, that is what people with Alzheimer's do. But I wondered if there was any particular concern that was driving that question, that day. She told me that facts like these are important and she wanted to have someone around who knew them, so she could check on them when she needed. I understood that.

One late afternoon, my Mom and I walked down the main street in my hometown. We talked about the department and variety and hardware stores that used to be there. The street's current knick-knack and second hand stores went out of focus as I puzzled out which side of the street Miller's department store had been. Images of the glass figurines in the window of Miller's were way more vivid than the slightly grubby looking dolls in the bin set outside the second hand store. Maybe that is kind of how the world was for my Mom, those summer days, where the past was still with her but the present was fragmented, at best.

We spent good time with my sisters, and some with D's siblings and mom. We took one trip to Vancouver, BC. I had a lot of headaches. X got to play with a cat a lot and arrange flowers some--and these were really delightful for her. We spent one night at a "family retreat" in an idyllic setting. Then we went home. This home.

One important part of the summer, the lasting effect, is that I better understand what my sisters are facing in helping my mom and making decisions for her. I hope that makes me better at participating in those decisions, though the amount of help that I can offer seems limited. Maybe I just haven't thought about that carefully enough.

The most important part of the summer was being with my Mom and X being with my Mom---just then.

The Perfect Adjective

2009-07-19T08:29:00.000-07:00

So, I have a lot of catching up to do (may be famous last words in a blog), but before telling you about our wonderful first two weeks in Washington, I just had share:

I am still trying to rename my blog. Really. Mom of One is just too bare and unsuggestive, obviously. (Adding obviously to a statement: a sure sign of fear of having nothing to say.)

The latest tactic, you will not be surprised to hear (another hedge), was searching through Bob Dylan lyrics for the right fragment. You know, like Mom of One: Blowing in the Wind. (No, no, not really.) Or maybe, Mom of One: Blood on the Tracks. Nah.

I did paste this lyric into my onliine sticky note collection: "I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still." There is something to that. But it's really more like, "We step and do not step into the same river twice." Do I want a tag by Dylan or Hericlitus?

Setting aside this approach, I decided to try MadLibs:
Mom of One.
Warming up:
Happy Mom of One
Not-so-happy Mom of One
Zippy Mom of One
Less-than-Zippy Mom of One
Always-has-a-headache Mom of One
Maniacal Mom of One
Semi-Maniacal Mom of One
Semi-Upright Mom of One

You see the contrasting pattern. It's kind of fun to play with.
Fragrant Mom of One
Malodorous Mom of One
Classical Mom of One
Modern Mom of One
Post-Modern Mom of One (over used, darn)

Or how about slangy adjectives:
Gosh-darned Mom of One
Bad Assssed Mom of One
Righteous Mom of One
Oh dear, X is still asleep so I can't collect more contemporary adjectives. I sounds like I am caught between Hee-haw and some film with a Curtis Mayfield soundtrack.

Culinary adjectives?
Saucy Mom of One
Pickled Mom of One
Salty Mom of One
Braised Mom of One
Sugar Coated Mom of One (maybe that is more of a medical term)

and more, with a leading S,
Sub-optimal Mom of One. (Nah, I am not that bad. How about Semi-sub-optimal Mom of One?)
Subterranean Mom of One. (I am in the basement right now, must be an influence. Or that Dylan stuff again.)
Starry Mom of One (Not really.)
Spooky Mom of One (ask X.)
Scintillating Mom of One ( I wish.)
Senior Mom of One (Not yet, but comparatively, I suppose.)
Sorry Mom of One (Often.)

Having dug myself in, I'm leaving it here.

2009-06-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

This westward journey ends up at my mom's house. Two of my sisters have--amazingly--turned the daylight basement into a suite for this Fam of 3. We'll stay there for six weeks, enjoying the Pacific Northwest summer, family---oh and working from a different home.

As I wrote last summer, we are weather wimps. We may be a bit less wimpy than last year--may be, maybe. But still, our plan to escape some of the Austin summer heat suits us. We hope to do the same each year. As much as we are growing to love Austin, those weeks of above 100 degree temperatures wear on us. (X's school start of Aug 22 interferes with our plan, of course. Darn school!)

X gets more enthused the closer we get to Washington. In western Nebraska, she got out of the car (in a Target parking lot, on a hunt for Starbucks) and said, "The sun is the only thing heating us up." I hadn't thought about it that way, but it's true that in those last few 104 degree days in Austin, the air and pavement were heating us up, plenty. In that parking lot, the pavement and air were cool enough that we could perceive a real warm/cool difference between sun and air, rather than simply an additive (hot plus hot) effect.

When I got out of the car at the first rest stop in Wyoming, I caught the scent of pine. Then I knew I was in the West. My West, though I had never been to Wyoming before. I am enjoying the comfort of those familiar sights and smells. On our way through the Blue Mountains, I watched out the side window as we glided downhill past pine, spruce and fir trees standing straight. At least, I think that is what they were, using my best memory of my (own) lessons from my father. Potential timber, in his eyes. In Austin, the "good" trees spread out, casting shade, as I have learned from Texas Sue. In my West, the "good" trees grow tall, impressing us with their height and, if fallen, their age counted by rings in the diameter. Crowded together, they form a protective forest. More sparsely arranged, they frame a bay view.

A bay view. We are on our way there. We'll see how this plan works out. (We have already pledged to be on our best un-messy behavior so that we don't disturb at least that aspect of my Mom's life.)

Westward, Ho

2009-06-28T06:48:00.001-07:00

One of my loyal readers wants to know where I am.

Where the deer and the antelope, play, that's where.

We are just leaving a Hampton Inn in Rawlins, Wyoming, headed for Washington. Really, we saw frolicking antelope. And deer running, at least.

We passed through Wichita two days ago, and we thought about Dr Tiller, murdered in his church.
Murdered in church. We thought about the dedicated but aging group of doctors willing to perform late-term abortions. I wondered about the circumstances that lead women to that decision. A roadside sign said, "Pray to an abortion." Huh? Sad, all the way around.

But the heathery looking range cheered us up. As did all the roadside attractions in Nebraska, featuring giant fake gorillas or cowboys memorials. Oh and in Kansas, the Oz Museum, of course. We didn't get to stop; we are in a hurry. On to Boise!

Middle vs. Elementary

2009-05-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

X finishes 6th grade next week. Her first year of middle school. My first year of parenting a middle schooler. There is a lot to say about each.

I have almost no involvement with the school--maybe none, outside of writing emails to a couple of teacher beseeching them for extra time for X's project. Or saying that we agree, she should not be making faces at you during class. I put it this way: "We have reminded X not to let her face betray her emotions." In other words, "your class is pretty darn boring and X thinks you talk down to the kids, but we've asked her to act otherwise." (I do not blame the teacher, here; she is just doing her job the best she knows how and it probably works just fine for most of her students.)

I am not so good at acting otherwise, myself. In fact, about 10 years ago, I decided I would walk out of any meeting that made me physically uncomfortable. I have had to excuse myself a few times. And I was probably rolling my eyes way before I got out of there.

Anyway, back to school involvement. As my long time readers (hey, my only readers!) know, I was an activist back at X's elementary school in San Francisco. Looking back, I think I was flipping from mania to depression, fueled by the dual sense of power and futility that comes with working closely with a small, struggling elementary school. My lasting impression: I was more involved in the school than in my child's education. Part of that was because, as I have written, we saw that school as our family' social justice project. So, I wanted to see all kids get exposure to art the way that X had. Unfortunately, X didn't much like the "artists in residence" who were ultimately hired.

I burned a few bridges too. More than in my professional life, where I am a little cautious to maintain relationships (usually), I would cross whatever lines I had to get the programs I wanted at a cost we could afford. I still have mixed feelings about that.

Earlier this year, I was forwarded an email from the current PTA at X's elementary school. Of course, this PTA has its own priorities, and they are dismantling most of what I worked to build. I know from my day job that no one person alone can make lasting change in a school. But still I tried. The changes are inevitable, and from my new vantage point, are less painful than they might be.

This year, my focus was on X, helping her make it through that first year. Even though we purposefully chose this school because its homework requirements were less than at some "magnet" schools, it was still a challenge for her to get her work done. Many nights, my job was to sit next to her as she struggled to get words onto paper for yet another book review or report on world culture. And I sympathize; I too struggle to get words on paper. Anyway, supporting her that way was much more satisfying than coaching her on keeping her emotions to herself, how ever useful a tool that may be.

X reports that middle school is hard and kids should not have to do so much work when they are kids--similar to her theme in elementary. She's pretty convincing. On the plus side, she has a circle of 11 friends (we counted them last night) and the parties and overnights that come with that. She's had good experiences through the "Gifted and Talented" club, and has enjoyed school dances and such. Those things mean a lot to her--and therefore, to me.

Temporarily Terse

2009-05-17T15:01:00.000-07:00

It's terse; it's stark; it's kind of bare.
Mom of One, a placeholder.
A new blog look to go with it.

Renaming, Again

2009-05-17T06:56:00.000-07:00

OK, it is time. I need yet another new name for my blog.

I have my Texas license and plates; the local Nordstrom has my address. I can drive to a (limited) number of locations without getting lost. X has finished almost a year in school here. D is out fraternizing with the locals several late nights a week. The boxes are all unpacked (I think) and we are settled into our townhouse.

I can't be San Francisco Mom of One anymore, either GTT or in Austin. But clearly, I can't be Austin Mom of One. And just Mom of One sounds too stark.

So, who am I? Or, I mean, what is the name of my blog? It could be just GTT, but I think a place-oriented name isn't right this time.

Help me?

Sand!

2009-05-17T06:09:00.000-07:00

Sandcastles and surf. That was last weekend, in Corpus Christi and North Padre Island.

We arrived late Friday at the Corpus Christi Omni to check into our upgraded $65 (yes!) room. This Omni is a slightly faded lady, but it didn't matter too much. They treated us well and even let us pick free room-service breakfast drinks. X and I both love room service--well, who doesn't? We were thrilled to place our card on the doorknob asking for coffee, cranberry juice and ice tea.

Oh, but on to the beach! It's about 20 minutes from Corpus Christi, and we got to choose from a patchwork of city and state beaches. We'd never been to the beach in Texas before. It was great! Fine sugar sand and warm water with big-enough-but-not-too-big waves. We stopped at a souvenir shop on the way there and got a boogie board and a small inflatable boat. That was enough to keep us busy in the surf for a couple of hours. And that was about as much sun as we could take.

Back in the hotel room, we all took naps. Then we set off to explore Port Aransas on Mustang Island. We were checking out places to stay for the next time--right up against the beach. The best way to do this, we decided, was to drive right along the beach. Hey, it's legal there. The sand was all packed down like a little country road--at first. The further we went, the looser and rougher it got. I was driving and slightly panicked. OK, maybe D would say more than slightly. We kept thinking we'd find a road off the beach that we could take back to town. Finally, in looser sand than I liked, I pulled a U-turn and plowed my way back to the packed sand onto a connecting road and into downtown Port A, as they say. Which, given my tendency to mispronounce the place as Port Ar-anus, struck me as funny. Anyway, we discovered that if we'd kept driving through the drifting sands for 7 miles, we would have found a connecting road.

The town was better than it sounded. A not-too-chi-chi spot, with more souvenir shops, one with front doors framed by 12 foot sharks with open jaws. Get the picture? No, I didn't take any. I can't get used to having a camera that will fit into my purse, so I often forget it. We looked, from the outside, at slightly run down little cottages and newly built beach houses. D watched fishing boats arrive back at the town dock, tourists carrying snapper and such.

We picked a restaurant on the dock for dinner. Our first course was Oysters Rockefeller, which I hadn't had in years. The main courses were a bit of a let down after that, but it was nice sitting on that covered patio overlooking the water. On the way back to the hotel, we bought supplies for the next day's activity: making sandcastles.

During the drive down the sand, X and I had noticed fancy sandcastle making in action. One castle looked like it belonged in a fairytale. The other was more sculpture than castle: a bust of someone. We had decided that we should try for ourselves.

Next morning, we were on the beach by 7, with our molds and a bucket. We made a basic castle and then sculpted with our fingers, the way we'd seen the pros do. We added details with the drip method, because our sculpting wasn't all that effective. We aspire to more next time.

I've written about this trip in more detail than I'd planned. I think it's because it represented a real turn around in mood for me, after my usual spring-time blues. I am glad to be back.

Birthday Dinner

2009-05-08T04:33:00.000-07:00

I haven't done much cooking over the past year. I am a good-enough cook, but I just lost the will. X eats just five things, but mostly a lot of Annie's Mac'n'Cheese. D has gotten into the habit of going out for dinner at around 10, fueling his late night work. And I have been living off of snacks and sandwiches. There, I admit it. The family dinner is, of course, more virtuous, but has not been one of our virtues.

Anyway, last night I mustered it up to cook a birthday dinner for D. I knew what would please him and it was simple: fish and a vegetable. When I want to make him happy, it's an easy method.

It's tomato time in Texas already, or at least they had some local tomatoes at Central Market, the nearest fancy grocery. So I decide to go for the classic tomato-mozzarella-basil salad. Central Market is always a challenge for me. After one year, I still haven't learned where everything is. I kept looking for the vinegars near the salad dressing but turns out they had a whole half aisle to themselves. Sherry vinegar seemed like a not-too-tangy choice.

The cod looked pretty good, and I thought a simple lemon-butter sauce would match its uncomplicated flavor. Lemon butter and vinegar in the same meal seemed a bit weird, but I knew he wouldn't mind. It's each flavor that matters to him. As much as my spouse can seem a mystery after 14 (or so) years, I guess I have learned a few of the subtleties.

When it came time to cook all this, I recruited X's help and it was good help. She made the salad on her own pretty much. And she used some little tricks on the cutting board: slicing a bit off the bottom of the tomato to steady it while she cut the slices, for example. She even knew what a chiffonade was, though she needed some help in execution. I didn't teach her any of that. We haven't done much cooking together, outside the key-lime pie we made for Christmas (for D). She explained how she learned: it was all Good Eats, and the other cooking shows on Food Network. We often watch Good Eats together. We like it because the host, Alton Brown, explains the whys of cooking as well as the what--sometimes even scientific explanations. Sometimes he even has Shirley Corriher on. She's an actual biochemist of food.

X's comment: Who says you can't learn something from TV?

Not me.

(She points out that I have already used that line in a blog entry. But I am too lazy to find the page.)

Oh, yeah, D loved the dinner and thought the vinegary tomatoes cleansed his palate for the buttery fish. (See, I knew he'd like it.) We bought a key-lime pie (also his fave) from the local and wonderful pie store, which does not seem to have a URL. Like many places in South Austin, it's just down the street from a landmark bar--in this case, the Horseshoe Saloon.

(Apologies to Deb for my foray into her territory. )

Torture is Wrong

2009-04-25T06:41:00.000-07:00

A local Unitarian church displays a banner, "Torture is wrong." Duh, right? Hey, it's illegal, too.
Well....during the Bush era, the Justice Department advised that techniques such as waterboarding are OK—just don't actually drown them. And that there was no need to follow the Geneva Conventions because Al Qaeda is not a nation-state.

Recently released memos from the Justice Department's Offfice of Legal Council detail—and I mean detail--what the US Justice Department sanctioned as interrogation techniques, post 9-11. And it's all wrapped up in the reasoning that was used to justify the approval. It's sickening, shameful stuff and you can read the memos here, at ACLU's site.

But more important is what we should do with this information—and other evidence that the CIA, the military and mercenaries used or authorized torture in an effort to extract information from men who were held in US prison camps. We should prosecute those responsible. So far Obama hasn't gone for it, though he made at least one statement saying he's open to an investigation.

Paul Krugman's column in the NYT explains why it is so important to demand justice. He says what I'd been struggling to say for the past few days. So I'll just leave it at that.

Except for this: You can sign the ACLU's petition for an independent prosecutor over at their site.

Running Late

2009-04-08T09:05:00.000-07:00

This morning, X woke me up at 7 to remind me that she needed to be at school by 7:30 to meet up with her prospective tennis coach. I usually wake up way before that, my need for coffee leading me to the kitchen. But with less than half an hour to work with, I had to choose: coffee or grooming.

I chose coffee. Fortunately, we just got this electric kettle that boils water in a miraculously short period of time. And it is clear, so you can see the miracle in action. Still, between throwing on clothes, making and drinking coffee, I was just ready to go in time. Yes, I have to tell you that I didn't even brush my teeth.

As we pulled up to the school, X suddenly said that she wished someone would go in with her. "Like me?" I asked. "Well, you cleaned up," she said. I gave her a couple of questions to ask, wished her luck, and went home to get cleaned up for Pilates.

My Find of the NIght

2009-04-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

YouTube surfing is my latest after-dinner hobby. I ran across this tonight and it gave me goosebumps. Enjoy.

Remaking

2009-04-01T04:36:00.001-07:00

I think most bloggers live for (write for) comments. So, speaking of, Anon Y. Mous said,

"We have little control over the randomness which has shaped us until we reach alleged adulthood, but then we can work on a second self: how do do we want to be, feel, think, imagine, become?"

Now clearly we can work on a second self. My question is: how far can we get? How much can we overcome our genetic- and early-experience-shaped destiny? (You can see something of my opinion there.) Sometimes I feel as though I am pretty far down the road. I even get a little smug: let those snarky high school girls see me now! But then, I get what feels like a big smack down. The great depression of 08, my personal one, for example.

And my husband: it is increasingly clear to me that I married him in some good part because of what he has in common with my maternal grandfather. "PaPa" died when I was 5 or 6.

I have hauled myself around the world, given myself the broadest range of experiences I could manage, and accomplished a fair amount professionally. But what do I really want to do? Hide under the covers and read, as when I was 7.

What about you? How much have you remade yourself? Or were you even trying? Maybe you were/are embracing your childhood self?

Getting Home

2009-03-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

If I labeled my posts and did a word cloud, I bet "illness" would be in big letters. Which is part of why I am not doing that. Anyway, now I have had five days of the flu. And I had a flu shot! (Husband tried to accuse me of not.) Whenever I got on a conference call with other work colleagues, they wanted me to hang up. I tried not to take it personally.

I think I got it on a plane. Planes are virus factories. Yet I have these colleagues who fly all over the world all the time and never seem to get sick. I am wimp; that's it. What else can I say?

Anyway, while I was shivering in the Washington snow/rain, D and X took off for Corpus Christi, along with the rest of the spring break crowd. Misty went with them in her own little pink and green guinea pig carrier. And a leash (which she hated). So Misty was hanging out on the 8th floor of the Omni, while I was shivering in my mom's basement. (exaggeration: she has heat.) X loved the beach; she said the sand was the softest she had ever experienced. She found an acceptable bathing suit in the hotel gift shop. (After she and I had searched through every single online option.) D just likes going anywhere.

All this is good, because I felt a lot of guilt just heading north for Seattle without bringing X along. X was happy with the trip; she leapt into my arms to tell me about it. Misty was happy to get home; she leapt into her real cage. I was happy to get home; I leapt into my king-size temperpedic-mattress bed. Ahhhhh.

Where in the World?

2009-03-21T04:48:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a trip to my hometown in the Pacific Northwest. It was COLD! As I made the two hour drive from the airport to the little town , it was raining so hard that the freeway looked glassy. Hydroplaning seemed the norm. I got lost only once and it was only a 15 mile detour. The next morning, it was snowing.

So I should be used to this, right? I grew up there. But I wasn't. I was terrified on the freeway and completely discouraged seeing snow the next morning. (Snow in March there: I think that is an anomaly.

Now I am back in Austin, where I am fretting about the coming hot weather. (Though the spring is wonderful.)

It really does seem that California spoiled me weather-wise. Even though the El Nino storm flooded our basement. Even though our last home was in the fog belt with fog so thick that tomatoes would not ripen and the wind so hard that I needed a scarf to protect my ears--in July. OK, that doesn't sound like I was spoiled.

Maybe I am just a weather wimp. But the whole thing makes me wonder where in the world I belong.

It Really Sucks

2009-03-04T16:42:00.000-08:00

...to get a three-day headache when D is out of town. I got X back and forth to school, only vomiting once. I canceled Pilates and the cleaner. Sue brought over my local headache cure: P Terry burger and a coke. P Terry is an "organic" hamburger drive through. If only they has some wholesome buns. But for the headache cure, pulverized protein, smooshy carbs, and a coke are necessary components. It's not a 100 percent cure, but it did help me make it through the afternoon. Maybe a good night's sleep....HAHAHAHAHAH

Maybe a few hours will help.

It's a Guinea Pig...

2009-02-27T20:24:00.000-08:00

...named Misty.

I like her well enough. (Remember Obama to Clinton: You're likable enough.) X loves her. She is warming to X, with little squeaks. I have blocked off the hallway for her playspace. This is a big idea to me. She plays—and poops—in there. Ewww.

X's friend came over yesterday and got scratched by Misty. That's because I don't have the nerve to trim Misty's nails. (Do you suppose I could just take her to the nail salon?) Anyway, minutes later, the girl broke out in mini-hives. I freaked out and monitored her breathing every ten minutes til her mom arrived. Apparently she survived, because I saw her with X today after school.

The care of the piggie (they call them that on the net) was supposed to be X's job only. But I have had my hand in there. In the yucky cage. Because I like her—well enough.

Adventures in Cookie Sales

2009-02-22T03:57:00.000-08:00

Encounters with the homeless seem more frequent here in Austin than in San Francisco. Weird, huh?

So yesterday, X and I drove out to the aptly named Slaughter Road. I say aptyly because X wondered aloud about the unpleasant name of the road. Well, there were some cattle still evident in the fields between cheap, windswept developments. All this dotted by oases of gas stations, fast food, supermarkets, drugstores and the occasional Starbucks.

We were out there to meet up with X's Girl Scout troop leader, for a late morning round of cookie sales. The poor young leader had driven out to the Slaughter Road Walgreens (our assigned cookie destination. We are a new troop so I bet we get the worst assignments.) before having her morning coffee. This was an emergency that I could relate to--and handle. So the two set up their table while I made a Starbuck's run.

When I returned, a youngish man wearing a Burger King party hat was hanging around the table, making the girls feel uncomfortable. And not just them. When he approached one couple in the parking lot, the man yelled out, "DON'T TALK TO ME!" I could see why the troop leader wanted me to stay around for a while. But what was I to do?

I led the Burger King man away from the cookie table. After a brief conversation, it became clear he wanted money and attention. (Don't we all?) So I pulled out a five, figuring that would be enough money for him to actually buy something with, so he wouldn't need to hang around asking for more. And from his breath, I knew he'd be needing a swig sometime soon. I told him that I was giving him the money so he would go away and leave the cookie sellers alone. He could see he was making things difficult for them, couldn't he? He rambled on some and asked me for a hug. After a quick "what would Jesus do?" assessment, I gave him one. I really thought about it: if an acquaintance or a family member asked for a hug, I would do it. The ideal is to treat every person like a brother. But ewwwww. I did it anyway.

I then asked him where he was going, reminded him that he had to leave, and walked him to the edge of the parking lot toward the train trestle under which he and his friends had apparently made camp.

I stood around the cookie table for a while, hoping my five dollar investment had worked, and finally drove home. I called the troop leader later and Mr. Burger King had not returned.

I asked X about it later. She said she was "creeped out" and tried not to watch. She admitted that she was prejudiced against him. I said that was fine: I didn't like his aggressive ways and dirty clothes either. And reminded her that, being a child, she shouldn't do any of the stuff I had done. She agreed heartily.

Probable Pet

2009-02-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

X is going to get a guinea pig. Probably. We think.

Last week, Girl Scout cookie sales were held in front of PetCo, so I told X that after she did her time, we'd go into the store and buy some stuff for the soon-to-be new pet. It was her idea to get the cage and bedding and all before getting the animal itself. The target pet was a gerbil.

But then we got into the store and started looking at all the rodents. I had the creeps just looking at the sign. Mice and rats were out--still. We looked at the gerbils, but X was taken by the guinea pigs. She had already read about how friendly they can be. The ones in the cage looked vaguely psychotic to me. But then, the clerk brought out an adoptable pet guinea pig. Apparently they keep these nice, raised-in-normal-families type animals in the back somewhere, and if you don't like the looks of the caged specimens in the front, you become a prospective adoptive "parent." For 20 bucks.

Anyway, I have to say that even I found the little creature appealing. And it appeared normal--though what do I know about normal guinea pig behavior? I was almost ready to buy it, when I asked X the big question: "Are you SURE you can take care of this thing, all the time, for a long time?"

"I'm not sure," was the answer. So we left the store with a book on guinea pigs, which X has been poring over ever since.

I am missing some wiring that a lot of people have: I have absolutely no desire for a pet. Never have, really. I think I wrote about this before. We had some pets when I was a kid, and I was sort of emotionally attached to one, but it lived outside. The idea of animals in my house is vaguely disgusting to me. (Sorry, pet owners, just being honest.) The idea of responsibility for yet another creature frightens me.

But X should have her pet experience, so a guinea pig it will be—probably. After thoroughly reading the book, she has decided that she can in fact care for it—every day, for a long time. I am waiting to see if that decision has much conviction behind it. But I won't wait too long.

Witches and Widows

2009-02-07T13:47:00.000-08:00

I am reading the Widows of Eastwick, in honor of John Updike's passing. His Rabbit Redux was one of the first adult novels (in the good sense of the word) that I read, when I was 17 or so. RR caught that 70s mix of "straight" culture and post-hippie culture in which I lived during most of the 70s—even though it was written in 1969. I loved it and cried over it. I know I read the other Rabbit novels, but none stands out to me.

Now, as for Eastwick, the movie about the Witches was one of my very favorite of the 80s, with Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Pfeiffer in their juicy prime. And Jack Nicholson as the Devil—what perfect casting, if not typecasting. Sort of a guilty pleasure, but so what? It was based on a respectable novel. I am sure I read the novel, but the memory of the movie is imprinted. Which leaves me with slightly sketchy basis on which to read the Widows.

In reading the Widows, I am noting Updike's swirly, smooth prose (the part I want to quote here would embarrass me; go read it yourself) and his uncanny ability to inhabit women, to understand them (not unlike Nicholson's character in the movie, really).

Here's to John Updike, a great American novelist.

I Love CNN

2009-02-06T14:55:00.000-08:00

I've had a migraine for the past 48 hours or so. (Just the hangover, now.) Anyway, during most of that time I lay semiconscious, watching CNN (or MSNBS if my husband got hold of the remote.) Some observations:

I love: Wolf Blitzer (just his name alone); John King (wise and goes gray well); Candy Crowley (always has the best sources and best necklaces); and Ali Velshi (upbeat while delivering bad economic news).

On Wikipedia I just found out that Velshi is a Canadian who was born in Kenya of Indian parents. Does CNN have the most diverse, international personnel? I haven't even gotten to Sanjay Gupta who MUST be surgeon general because he performed brain surgery in Iraq. Or Christianne Amanpour, the first of the international reporting gang.

In comparison, now, MSNBC has Rachel and Chris and that other mouthy guy. Maybe one of them is a Canadian? Why am I bothering to make this point? Notice how I mentioned that MSNBC is on when husband is in control of the TV? He says he'd rather be entertained by Rachel Maddow than John King. Now I don't mind hanging out with guys from "our" side. The two white guys and a gal get in some good barbs. But you know what? Rachel's mouth curls mean just like Greta Van Sustern's does---you know, the gal from the "other" side.

It's just a symptom of what I think is wrong. See what I mean?

I mean, besides the fact that I have been watching way too much TV over the past 24 hours. But they have the cockpit tape from the landed-in-the-Hudson plane, and they are playing it word by word...gotta go.

Milking It One More Time

2009-01-28T17:12:00.000-08:00

How many times can I use my get-a-DL experiences in my blog? One more time, please. So I took and passed the driving test. Now I have a license to drive. That's the short story.

The longer story:

When we started off, my examiner, a very gentle man with a slight Caribbean accent, asked why I was nervous. WHY WAS I NERVOUS? I wanted to PASS. I did not want to come back to the Department of Safety at 7:30 in the morning and wait in line for over 40 minutes to get a number so I could wait in my car for another 20 minutes for an examiner to greet us. Of course, my husband had to drive me, so we were both waiting.

I drove around the area, with my examiner in the passenger seat. He told me to turn, to stop, to parallel park. I turned, I stopped, I parallel parked. I was judged a very good driver who does not follow directions very well. Accurate enough. I turned the wrong direction twice, and slammed on the brakes for a fast stop, when all he wanted was a stop. But it said on the form that they wanted a quick stop. And the manual said I wasn't supposed to cross a double yellow line to make a turn.

I am pleased to say that my score was 90 out of 100. I am surprised at how pleased I am. All that school training, I suppose. The last scored test I took was for getting a NYC teaching license. I remember thinking: this is the LAST TEST. Guess not.

But this is the last entry on this topic. I promise.