Meow Musings

Memory lane

2008-07-25T18:56:00.004-05:00

I named mine Matilda Daphne, and I carried her everywhere, at least at first.

She had beautiful stringy red hair in pigtails, a yellow dress and Sunday-white shoes.

She was my favorite Christmas present in 1985. I was 6.

I found her years later in a box, and I got her out and brushed her off. If I remember right, I put her on my bed for a while, even though I was much too old for dolls. She sat next to the Puff-a-lump (at least someone has to know what I'm talking about, right?) and the Care Bear (Cheer Bear also circa-1985 and loved to death) that I also retrieved from that box.

In college, the toy companies wisely started making Cabbage Patch Kids and Care Bears and My Little Ponies and other toys from my childhood again. Only they weren't the same.

And so they weren't as good.

Instead of the simple smiling faces, flowered tummies and lollipop hindquarters, these new toys were flashier. They talked. And glowed in the dark. And came with DVDs.

I hated this. Where was the simple, lovable Pound Puppy of my youth? Where is the GloWorm that doesn't sing?

But today I got an e-mail from a PR person who must think I have some venue to promote his product. I don't really, of course, but his message landed on willing ears. In September, Cabbage Patch Kids turn 25. And to celebrate their birthday, Xavier Roberts and crew are bringing back the original models.

Rock.

Matilda Daphne and Kelly Dorcas and all the other kids adopted by my childhood peers will be on the shelves again.

It's marketing, yes, and on the surface that's all it is.

But I think to others like me, the nostalgia just might be worth buying one.

I got an award!

2008-07-24T18:26:00.003-05:00

My childhood best friend, Jenny, gave me an award!

This is, I'm gathering, a big deal in blog land. Jenny said it lets you know that people enjoy your blog.

So cool.

Thanks, Jenny.

I feel like my blog posts have been leaving something to be desired lately. I'm just not feeling it. So maybe this will be the inspiration I need. Let's hope so!

Thanks again, Jenny.

Yoga for Yoda

2008-07-21T08:26:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, after homemade waffles and the newspaper, I asked Rye if he wanted to try the kids yoga video I got at the library recently.

"Yoda video?" he said. "Yeah!"

Though it was not Yoda doing tree pose or upward facing dog, the three of us gave the exercise a try anyway.

We followed along with a group of super flexible kids and a very happy, hippie-ish woman. Her instructions for the poses were interspersed with shots of yawning white tigers and leaping tree frogs.

It was all very happy.

And Rye actually did a really great job.

You should have seen his triangle pose. It was just about perfect.

And there's something so adorable about little bodies striking poses you normally don't see.

My friend, Katie, says kids' bodies are meant to do these things anyway and how much better would the world be if every child did yoga three times a week?

I agree.

If nothing else, it was a quiet, silly, simple activity for us to do together on a Sunday morning.

I didn't even mind when Rye decided my bent leg on tree pose would be great for hanging on and he almost toppled both of us over.

This activity ended, by the way, with Dane doing freestanding headstands in the middle of the room.

Not our typical Sunday morning.

But it'd be nice if we did it again.

Do 3-year-olds just not sleep?

2008-07-20T15:34:00.003-05:00

I thought once we finally convinced our baby to sleep through the night when he was eight months old, that we'd been through the worst of it.

And, yes, maybe we had.

But lately nighttime is not very fun again.

Last night, for example, he was awake until after 10 p.m. -- pretty late. But at 3 a.m., he woke up crying. I ignored it for a while but finally went up to see what was wrong.

He asked to come in our bed. I said no because I've learned recently how well that goes. He doesn't sleep. He just rolls around and keeps everyone awake. I told him I would sit with him for a while, though, but that didn't seem to do the trick either.

So he requested to go on the couch and "watch something."

I caved to the couch request, stopping in my room to get my pillow, and then we laid on the couch. We did this three nights ago when he was sick. And now I'm afraid we've started a bad habit.

We slept for the most part.

But at 5:50 a.m., the sun was up. And to Rye, that signals morning. He renewed his request to "watch something," so I grumpily turned on the Disney channel and went back to sleep. I think he eventually fell back asleep, too, until finally around 8 he sat up, crabby.

That was how I started my Sunday.

I love being with Rye, and I'm generally happy to do what he asks (within reason, of course).

But come on: 3 a.m.? Really?

Are 3-year-olds just not wired for a whole lot of sleep?

Jesus Freak

2008-07-18T21:07:00.003-05:00

Today I stopped at the post office on my way to work and on the way back to the main road, stuck at a stoplight, the car in front of me yelled: "I'm a Jesus freak!"

It was a beat-up Oldsmobile with a rusted bumper, a crooked keyhole cover on the trunk and a cracked windshield.

Two giant stickers clung to the rear window.

One was basic: "I love Jesus."

The other, completely over the top: "I am covered in Jesus' blood."

I do not understand stickers like this.

Sure, I have a sticker on the back of my vehicle that says simply "26.2." Most people probably do not know what this means. The people who do know -- they are part of my pretend secret club.

But everyone -- anywhere -- knows what "I love Jesus" means. And I'm all for free expression and free religion and free thought and peace and love and opinions and all of these things that can be ugly or beautiful but at their core are really just what humans are: an ugly beautiful ball of feeling and emotion and anger and embarrassment and all sorts of other things.

I suppose slapping stickers on a car must make some feel their religion is that much stronger. Is that why they do it? Or do they just really want everyone to know how much they love God?

I don't know ... isn't religion supposed to be more beautiful than worn, weathered stickers on a beat-up rusted Oldsmobile?

The author Anne Lamott tells us to live life with grace. However we can.

And I suppose if this person feels the bumper stickers make this life that much easier to get through -- to believe in -- then all the more power to him.

Still, it seems strange.

High School 2.0

2008-07-13T16:17:00.006-05:00

A high school reunion seems to be one of those things in life that has no middle ground. You are either someone who has always planned on attending the 10-year event. Or you always knew you wouldn't.

I always knew I'd go.

It was last night.

And despite the weird apprehension that came over me as we drove up to the event and the deep breath I had to take to actually go in, it was really fun.

And totally surreal.

My husband's close friend used the term "swollen" to describe some of the classmates at their high school reunion last month. And, yes, that applied at mine as well, especially to the guys. Several, at least, were heavier and many had lost their hair. Others, though, looked almost exactly the same, if just a bit older.

The girls, for the most part, all looked great. Only one of the popular girls had gained a significant amount of weight (and don't we always hope to see the most popular girl show up at the reunion with an extra 30 pounds she just couldn't lose after having the quarterback's firstborn?).

The best part, though: Everyone was nice. The cool kids still hung together, and the cliques were evident sort of -- but I didn't feel shut out like I did in high school. Everyone seemed to be cool to everyone.

It was strange seeing kids I'd gone to elementary school with, a few my best friend, Jenny, and I played with often. The boys who lived on either end of her block, who'd ride their bikes past and stop to play kickball with us in the street. I had to ask one of those now grown-up boys who he was; he looked that different. The other one remembered going to the lakes for a late summer party my friend, Jessica, and I organized when we were 11. I had forgotten about that party until he mentioned it. And then we both remembered it was cloudy and cold but we went anyway.

Of course, a few of my close friends were there, too. And that's what really made it fun. As adults, we don't get to just hang out often enough, if at all.

I'll take this excuse to do that, at least every 10 years.

Remember

2008-07-10T08:20:00.003-05:00

Last night, in bed, during our trying to fall asleep ritual, Rye turned toward me, one hand under his chin and said, "Mommy, do you like balloons and cake and presents and birthday parties?"

Yes, Rye, I like all of those things.

"Do you remember my birthday party?"

Yes, I do, Rye. It was very fun, wasn't it?

"Yeah. Can we talk about it?"

So we did, remembering the presents everyone gave him and then talking about them again and again until I finally had to remind him it was time to go to sleep.

I loved the fact he had started the conversation, though, and that he was remembering something important to him -- to us -- so long after the fact.

The night before last, I went to help my mom and sister bury my kitty. The three of us dug a hole in my mom's backyard, brushing away mosquitoes and tears. We all said goodbye and took turns remembering what sort of a cat she was. We buried her with her favorite canned cat food, some kitty treats and a picture of her and my sister taken about eight years ago. So she can remember.

In the end, memories are often all we have left of the past. And even though it's likely they warp and twist with age and we forget some things and rearrange others, they are valuable, if intangible.

In my mind, I'll remember Nike as the spunky, fluffy kitten we chose at the humane society and the grown-up cat who slept with me at night and always seemed to be just where I needed her.

In Rye's mind, he'll remember the fun of his 3rd birthday party and I hope lots more of these childhood days.

Happy Fourth of July!

2008-07-05T12:28:00.006-05:00

We celebrated our country's independence yesterday with:
* a parade filled with kids and dogs and families in one of Omaha's nicest neighborhoods.
* an afternoon of food and fun at a friend's house
* a little bit of baseball and a lot of fireworks at Rosenblatt Stadium.

We were up until 1 a.m., after the traffic jam that kept us in the stadium parking lot for 40 minutes. My sister and brother spent the night and have been playing Star Wars with Rye for most of the morning. Rye is very happy.

The best part of my day was the neighborhood parade. Led by the neighborhood's mailman and a brass band, hundreds of families line up with decorated wagons, strollers and bikes to parade down this beautiful, tree-lined street and then rendezvous in the park. There, kids ride in a circle around a grassy infield and "judges" pick out the best in each category.

We were proud of our creation: a landspeeder from Star Wars, made by our friend, Jeff. Complete with a Death Star and a sign that said, "May the Force be with USA," we thought we should definitely win.

We didn't win, but we think the first place "wagon" completely cheated. It was a converted go-cart - driven by an adult -- that had four cars behind it. They were made of steel drums. It was cool. But totally out of anyone else's league.

So we got second. And that is OK.

Here is a video from the parade.

Bedtime

2008-07-01T22:40:00.002-05:00

I am going to bed now. It has been a long day.

It began at 4:30 a.m. when my 3-year-old going on 10 scared me to death by seemingly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the night next to my bed.

Still mostly asleep, I helped him climb in. He settled in next to me, and I covered him, never really opening my eyes.

The walk down stairs must have woken him up, though. Because he never went back to sleep.

That's right.

Instead, he rustled the blankets with his legs, rousing Dane and I with the whooshing noise. He asked me a few times if we could get up yet.

Finally, at 5:50 a.m., I said we could.

I did this because I knew The Wiggles would be on at 6 a.m.

Out on the couch, I closed my eyes.

Five seconds later, Rye noticed. He disapproved and said: "Mommy, wake up! It's morning behind you. Look."

And, yes, it was light outside. The windows behind me proved it.

But it was still very early.

So goodnight.

A Great Wolf Day

2008-06-30T18:29:00.004-05:00

Have one. That's the message Great Wolf Lodge tries to ingrain into your brain.

We're back from our mini-vacation, and it was nice to get away. I think my favorite part, though, was not Great Wolf Lodge. It was the outdoor shopping center nearby where we spent time both days we were there.

My friend and I took our kids to this Disney-esque dinosaur restaurant called T-Rex Cafe Saturday night. It was filled with oversized animatronic dinosaurs that howled and moved. You just couldn't stop looking around. It was super cool, if completely manufactured and expensive.

Yesterday, the seven of us ate lunch at a different, more adult restaurant in this same outdoor mall. We sat outside in the sun. This was maybe my favorite part of the weekend.

The swimming was fun, too, of course, especially the giant water slides that Rye got to go on with us. The two of us only fell off once -- and lost our sunglasses once -- so that was pretty good!

Today was back to the same old routine of work and battling traffic and stopping at Hy-Vee on the way home.

I'd have traded it for another Great Wolf day.

Happier news

2008-06-27T20:10:00.003-05:00

So my mom and I were wrong. Sort of. Maybe. At least for now.

The vet says Nike is doing OK and seemed interested in food today, though she didn't eat. Her fluids were good, though, and they decided to put her back on the hyperthyroid medicine she'd been taking a while ago. Her thyroid not working properly may have contributed to the liver failure, but it isn't that likely that the medicine will reverse it.

Still, my mom said she will likely live at least a while longer. If Nike eats at the vet tonight, my mom can take her home tomorrow.

I'm just happy I didn't have to do the final farewell I'd been dreading tonight like I'd been planning.

We're going to Great Wolf Lodge in Kansas City tomorrow, and it will be oh-so nice to not feel as sad as I've been the past few days.

Happy weekend. (And thanks for your thoughts, everyone).

It's just about time

2008-06-26T19:41:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow, we will put Nike to sleep.

It is just time.

She has liver failure and is hooked up to IVs at the vet tonight. The vet said we could put a feeding tube in to prolong her life.

But that's not right.

Why would we do that to her?

It's just time.

I'll miss her.

UPDATE: We decided to wait and talk to the vet in the morning. If he says she's not in pain, we will bring her home and let her go there when she's ready. That is what's really right. I think.

Saying goodbye

2008-06-25T19:31:00.006-05:00

This was taken eight years ago. It's my sister, Ashley, and my cat, Nike.

Today, they are both on my mind.

I've been meaning to write about Ashley, and how she baby-sat Rye all by herself on Saturday.

I've been meaning to tell everyone how great she did. How she put him to bed all by herself when he told her he wanted to take a nap, how she played with him and got him more milk and helped him go potty and read him books and got up with him the next morning so Mommy and Daddy could sleep just a little bit longer.

I've really been meaning to do that.

Because she really did great. And I was so serious when I told her we'd love to have her spend the night MUCH more often.

But I haven't done that yet. Because my dad's visiting this week, and we're gearing up for a mini-vacation this weekend and I've been busy at work and I'm taking RSVPs for our class reunion in a few weeks. And I just haven't made time.

But I appreciate it. A lot.

My mom called this morning. She was crying.

One of Ashley's hamsters attacked another one, wounding it pretty badly. My sister discovered it when she went to clean the cage yesterday. They set up a triage in another room, and my little sister got up at 3:30 in the morning to check on it. They surrounded it with cotton and took some solace that the little guy was still breathing.

This morning, my mom called the vet. They were too busy, they said. She said she was bringing it in anyway.

But when she got to the car, it had stopped breathing.

A hamster funeral was planned for this evening.

For Ashley, I feel bad about this.

For me, I feel bad about this: The cat that I've had since I was 12 is dying. My mom told me this this morning, too.

Nike was a kitten when my mom and I picked her out at the humane society. She was a replacement for Cleo, the cat my parents got when I was 2 and stuck by my side through everything. I don't know if now, even as an adult, I'm completely over Cleo's death.

I named the fluffy orange kitten Nike because I had fallen in love with basketball and Michael Jordan and the Bulls and playing the sport as much as I could.

Nike slept with me at night -- throughout junior high, high school and the weekends when I came home from college. I used to think we talked to each other with our eyes.

When I got married and moved away, I considered many times taking Nike with me, but I never did. She seemed OK where she was, for the most part.

But now she hasn't eaten for a week, and her eyes are cloudy. She is frail and skinny. A skeleton, my mom says.

It is sad.

I know it's "only" a cat. And I can't pretend to imagine the horror of losing a child -- that must be a million times worse than this.

But still, I miss her already. And this sense of loss is also very real.

All grown up

2008-06-21T10:17:00.004-05:00

I woke sort of lazily this morning and was surprised to see the red numbers on the clock beside my bed.

8:20.

Really?

I heard Rye through the monitor; he was obviously awake, but I didn't think he'd been calling for us.

By the time I got upstairs a few minutes later, he was yelling, "Daddy! Mommy! It's time to get up!"

I turned the corner to his room and was surprised to see:
a) his door wide open
b) him sitting up, cross-legged, smiling in his bed
c) his lamp on

"Well, hi!" I said. "Did you open your door and turn on your light?"

"Yeah!" he said. "And I went potty all by myself. And I went poopy. But I didn't flush. And I took my shorts off."

I couldn't believe it.

The evidence was there in the bathroom, and he even did a darn good job wiping.

Wow. My 3-year-old now no longer needs me for anything really than getting him things he can't reach, using the stove to cook him things and loving him, of course.

That's most important, but still. I wasn't quite ready for this transition to so much independence.

Even when we went downstairs, he insisted on opening the refrigerator to get him some apple juice. And he chose a juice box that he opened himself instead of juice I would have had to pour into a cup.

Later, he was playing by himself and announced: "Look, I made a rocket just like Boba Fett's."

And, yes, there on the floor, he had used his six light sabers to make a giant replica of the rocket Boba Fett, a Star Wars character, carries on his back.

I asked Dane if he had shown Rye how to do that.

No, he hadn't.

Wow.

Guess we better hold on and pay attention. Our babies grow up in the blink of an eye.

Dilemma

2008-06-20T08:17:00.003-05:00

My sister called yesterday for advice.

Here was her situation:

A co-worker who she is friendly with took the day off. She and her family were having a garage sale, her son was selling lemonade, etc., so at some point during the day, my sister stopped by to say hi.

While there, the child brought her into the house to show her the turtle they'd found on the side of the road.

My sister, an animal lover and vegetarian like me, was skeptical but followed the boy inside.

And there indeed was a gigantic snapping turtle inside a cooler with about an inch of water. The cooler was closed. There were no holes to let air in.

My sister was horrified.

And then it got worse.

Her co-worker's husband announced they were going to eat it that night.

My sister went back to work and couldn't shake what she'd just seen. She called a local conservation board, who told her it was illegal for them to keep the turtle. At this point, she called me.

Should she turn them in? Should she say something to her co-worker about how wrong this seemed?

Should she do nothing?

Ultimately, I suggested she do nothing.

But I hate that answer.

Later, my sister did call the Natural Resources District (that turtle doesn't have a voice, she decided). And they told her that, if you have a license, you can in fact trap and kill snapping turtles.

This person likely does not have a license, but the legality of it clear, she let it go.

We talked on the phone later that night and I said, "Well, if it was a cat or a dog, of course, you would have said something right away."

And almost as soon as I said it, while I knew it was true, I thought, "Wait. What? Really? Why is a turtle's life less valuable than a cat's?"

But in society, it just generally is.

It's the same reason people eat cows and pigs and chickens and turkeys every day - sometimes all three meals - without blinking an eye.

But they wouldn't eat Sadie the Cocker Spaniel or Fluffy the Maine Coon.

It's one of those realities that just is the way it is.

But I wish it wasn't.

Baby fever

2008-06-16T22:29:00.005-05:00

I've got it.

I'm not dangerously burning up yet, but this fever ... it just keeps hanging around. I can't shake it.

It seems to get worse when I see people I know with babies.

Or when I see adorable little girls in any of the millions of adorable little-girl outfits.

Or when Rye is being so precocious I just can't help smiling. (So far, 3 is, like I thought, a really, really great age).

We ran into Rye's old daycare provider last weekend. She was pushing a stroller. I knew there had to be a newborn inside.

We were in the car, but she and her husband saw us and they invited us to take a peek at the baby.

How could I say no?

So we pulled over and got out and when I saw the baby, I think I sort of silently gasped. He was SO TINY. I had forgotten they are ever that small. And he was sleeping. Is there anything better -- I mean, come on, really -- than a sleeping baby?

Rye's current daycare provider is also expecting a baby. It will be her second, and I can tell she is so excited. Slowly, her tummy is growing, just like the baby's wardrobe. Already, this baby that's due in JANUARY has cuter clothes than I.

And suddenly I find myself thinking more and more about babies and baby things.

Even maternity clothes.

That must mean I'm really ready.

It's a twister

2008-06-11T20:55:00.004-05:00

The wind is blowing outside, and hail and rain are pelting our house.

The tornado sirens started blaring halfway through dinner, around 6:30 tonight. No one was wasting anytime today, after the tornados that wreaked havoc with little to no warning in the middle of the night Sunday.

Dane turned on the TV upstairs, and I waited about 30 seconds before heading with Rye downstairs. So we are here.

Just waiting for it all to pass.

We are glued to the TV and the computer. The World-Herald has a pretty cool live update going on. Readers are asking questions and a Webmaster is answering them.

On Sunday, we all lucked out. Some people lost their homes, yes. But nobody lost their lives.

Tonight is different.

And it's potentially heartbreaking.

Authorities have already said four people were killed at a Boy Scout camp in Little Sioux, Iowa. We don't know who they are or where they're from. But I can't get the thought out of my head: They were probably kids.

I've been keeping Rye closer, and even though he's squirming and wiggling and bumping my arms as I try to type right now, he's right where I want him.

Be safe, everyone.

Da-da Da-da Da-da Da-da Batman

2008-06-11T08:21:00.004-05:00

When I was little, my dad and I would walk to a nearby park in Wisconsin where we lived. We'd slap plastic bands on our wrists and instantly become superheroes.

I was always Wonder Woman. My dad, if I'm remembering correctly, liked to be Batman or Robin. We always had a soft spot in our hearts for Robin.

We'd run around the park, spinning on the merry ground, scaling the monkey bars, jumping and saying things like, "Kazam!"

I loved this game.

Fittingly, my dad gave Rye this Batman mask for his birthday last month.

We also like this quite a bit. In fact, we've all taken turns wearing it.

There's just something totally empowering about pretending to be a superhero.

Nosy neighbor

2008-06-07T13:55:00.004-05:00

The wind blew tiny wisps of hair that had slipped from my ponytail, and I squinted a bit in the bright light that shone on the softball field.

Out there, adults played like children, swinging and missing, swinging and pelting the big, round ball to the outfield, running and sliding and laughing and being too serious about a strikeout.

My close friend and I sat nearby on the metal bleachers. They were the kind that would surely leave my legs red and imprinted with lines had I not been wearing jeans.

We leaned forward, hands cupping our legs, a sort of huddle against the too-cool-for-summer evening breeze.

This was her game to be at. They were her employees playing. And since we often struggle to make time for each other, she invited me along.

I was happy to go, and I left home with little guilt. The game was late enough, I still put the boy that life revolves around to bed.

So there we were, cold but happy and carefree, with enough time to catch up.

She mentioned the shirts her players were wearing. That reminded me of the company T-shirts many of us had worn to work, at our boss' urging, that day. The group photo we'd taken. I told her about it.

Then we talked about the high school reunion that's coming up, the one I'm helping plan. I recruited her to be THE decorating committee and we debated even wanting to go at all. There is courage in numbers, though, and we agreed to attend.

We talked about other things - her sister's lucrative new marketing job, for one - and then the lady who was sitting next to us interrupted.

It was quickly clear that she'd been listening closely. To every single word we said.

She offered suggestions for the reunion decorations, which involved asking my employer to print pictures of all 300 classmates (um, no) and borrowing crystal vases from the wedding of one of my friend's co-workers (again, I don't think so).

While they weren't bad ideas and this woman was nice enough, I couldn't help but feel a little violated. After all, it wasn't her conversation. My mind scanned back through everything we'd said. Did I say anything awful?

Afterward, we turned to watch the game that by this time seemed like it would never end. I wrapped the bottom of my jeans around my toes to try to stay warm.

And we sat mostly in silence.

When we did talk, our voices were low, and we chose our words carefully.

Later, over a drink, we both immediately vented about the situation. We used words like awkward and uncomfortable. Harmless? Probably.

But still.

When old friends get together, others should -- most of the time, at least -- just let them be.

Animal lover Ashley

2008-06-05T08:18:00.004-05:00

My sister has a blog now, too.

She is 12 ... going on 16.

Her name is Ashley and she loves animals. Appropriately, her blog's name reflects that.

So far, she has a couple posts; the most recent one begins, "My brother, Justin, is bugging me right now."

Hilarious.

And she promises to tell us more about the hamster city she has built at her mom's, dad's and grandparents' houses. (It all started with an innocent plea for just two hamsters who could be friends. They didn't know the two innocent hamsters would reproduce like crazy.).

She's also going to fill us in on her move to the basement, which has been a year or more in the making.

And I'm sure there will be more tales of adolescence to be found there as well.

Anyway, visit her here.

I'm feeling hot, hot, hot

2008-06-03T18:14:00.004-05:00

It's finally warmed up in eastern Nebraska, and the humidity is in full force.

Ugh.

Where are my western Colorado dry-heat summers?

I ran over lunch today and did not think I was going to die but did feel very uncomfortable from about 20 minutes in and on.

As I ran past the fountains and lake in a park, I could think about only two things: Jumping in and drinking it.

I did neither of those things, but I did end up lengthening my normal route by about 3/4 of a mile. Bad idea on such a hot, humid day.

I finished just fine but just felt SO HOT.

I laid down on the locker room floor when I was finished (I know, but it seems very clean) just to let the coolness of the tile cool down my insides.

Then I showered and realized I'd forgotten a towel.

Still sweating after the shower, I used paper towels to dry off.

Ahem.

I will not forget my towel again.

Then I put my nice New York & Co. work clothes back on and ventured back into the heat.

At my air-conditioned desk, I was still sweating.

At home now, I am hot. We broke down and finally turned on the air conditioning the minute we got inside, though it's going to take a while, I fear, for it to really feel comfortable.

I am drinking Gatorade.

Summer has arrived, sort of just like that. Late but recognizable. Hot but good.

NKOTB update

2008-06-01T21:54:00.004-05:00

New Kids on the Block are coming to Omaha. I wrote a month or so ago about the Chicago concert Jenny and I almost attended but couldn't. Why? Because it sold out -- in about 10 minutes. And the despair I felt.

But fear not, friends. Because I totally scored good tickets yesterday to their Omaha show, which is way better than traveling to Chicago for a concert anyway.

I showed up at the Qwest Center about 90 minutes before tickets went on sale, hoping to secure a good spot in line. I had no idea how many people would be there. Turns out, there were five. But -- and I should have realized -- the arena did a lottery to see who would buy tickets first, second, third and so on at 9:30 anyway. So when I arrived didn't matter.

Eh, no big deal for me. So I wasted an hour. But I did feel for the woman had who had been there SINCE 4 A.M. with her 2-YEAR-OLD. She ended up last in line.

Yep, last. Out of about 30 people, so she still got good tickets, I'm sure. But still.

I, on the other hand, was second in the lottery!

Things were going my way. And that was awesome.

I didn't get front-row seats, or even second or third or fourth. No, somehow the first 20 rows of seats were already sold before tickets went on sale. I didn't question it. Rather, I've decided to be very happy with seventh row in the lower balcony section right next to the stage.

As Jenny pointed out, not only will we be able to see them better from that vantage point, we'll also be able to breathe more of their air (than if we were 20 rows back). Either way, we'll be WAY closer than we were the last time we saw them, Nov. 9, 1990, in Ames, Iowa. We were in the fifth grade, and we were way up in about the highest seats in the house (similar to when I saw Michael Jordan play his last home game as a Washington Wizard in 2003). Still, we were there then and that was awesome, too.

But a much better view and more of their air?

I'll take it.

Portraits of beauty

2008-05-29T20:59:00.003-05:00

I wrote a story for the newspaper yesterday about middle school art students who had drawn portraits of senior citizens at a nearby retirement home.

The old people were invited to a reception at the school where the portraits and short stories the eighth-graders had written about them hung in a hallway.

The work was amazing.

And the scene was touching.

I couldn't help but be struck by the two generations. One: young, naive, innocent, oh-so optimistic, eager. The other: old, wise, realistic, resigned.

In some cases, 80 years separated these two players in my little story.

The old people from what I could tell absolutely loved the drawings the kids had worked on so carefully for more than a month. One man couldn't get over how exact the wrinkles on his forehead and neck were drawn, how just like him it looked (though he joked: "I'm not sure I like the picture.").

He stood in the corner where his portrait was for at least half an hour. Just looking at it, studying it, marveling about something or other.

I was struck by how in awe and appreciative the senior citizens were of the students' efforts.

They almost just couldn't get over it.

You know what I think a lot of it is?

The fact that someone took the time to talk to them, study them, draw their beautiful, wise faces and then invite them over for a cookie and punch to see what they all look like in artistic pencil.

They were a part of something different, and they were center stage.

The other thing I noticed is how much the older people wanted to talk. They have stories to tell -- about younger days, wives, children, great-great-grandchildren, businesses they used to own, wars fought, children lost.

It's heartbreaking and inspiring all at the same time.

Looking at them, listening to them, reminds me just how much life I still have to live. So much -- I hope -- that I can't even imagine it.

'We shoot bad guys'

2008-05-27T08:20:00.003-05:00

So Rye is hit and miss with pronouncing our last name correctly. More and more, he gets it right, but sometimes he replaces the 'Stick' at the beginning with "Schnick" and even though it's incorrect, it's cute.

Two nights ago while laying with him at bedtime, he asked me what my last name was. I told him and pointed out that it was the same as his and that Daddy also had the same last name. So then we went through and said everyone's first and last names together.

Then, he said:

"We're the Stickneys. And we shoot bad guys."

(We don't, don't worry. I'm about as anti-gun as they come).

It looks like meat

2008-05-23T23:26:00.004-05:00

We don't eat meat.

This is difficult for some people to understand, especially where we live. Many Nebraskans were raised on dinners of meat and potatoes. They grew up on farms and sometimes ate the family cow for dinner.

"What do you mean you don't eat meat?"

We get this a lot.

And that's fine; I generally offer a succinct answer about how there are actually plenty of other foods that don't involve animal flesh that we eat. We're certainly not lacking for nutrition or calories. And, to be clear, we're not judgmental about what others' eat. If you want to eat meat, that's your choice. Just like choosing not to is ours.

So anyway, I became a vegetarian about six months after marrying one. It was my own decision and one I reached one day when Dane said, "If you care about animals so much, how can you eat them?"

He was right, so I decided to try the whole vegetarian thing.

Five years later, it has stuck. (For the record, I did have a small amount of turkey three years ago when I was pregnant. I am not sure why I did this ... I'm blaming the growing baby).

So we've gotten used to eating beans in dishes that traditionally would require ground beef. In tacos, for example, we use either black, refried or pinto beans.

A few weeks ago, though, we were having friends -- carnivores -- over for dinner and I thought maybe we'd try the "Smart Ground" veggie ground beef. It's really all soy, but it sort of looks like hamburger. Dane, though, told me we could not try it with friends because we'd never prepared it before and you just can't try new things on guests.

OK. So it sat in our refrigerator until tonight when I took it out and cooked it.

Cooking it really only amounted to cutting open the vacuum-sealed package, plopping the soy crumbles into a frying pan, breaking them apart like I remember my mom doing to hamburger when she made tacos and then waiting for them to get hot.

It looked so much like meat it was gross.

Weird, huh?

Dane wouldn't even eat it, opting instead for a bit more adult version of Ramen noodles (Thai Soup, but it still comes in a package that you cut open and dump into boiling water).

I did eat it. And it was really good.

But still. It just didn't seem right. And I'm not sure if I'll buy it again.