"Walk this way, talk this way"

I am not a collector of things other than clothes and Kathy Van Leland pursues. In college I was a collector of bumper stickers and buttons. Of course, most of the buttons yelled political statements that I was not brave enough to yell directly with my own voice. Statements like: "Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History", "Be Subversive!", "Free Mumia!" "Mister, Mister, Get Your Laws Off My Sister!" "If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention" (still my favorite, still applies today), and the great bumper sticker "This is what a Feminist looks like." I was so happy I had that bumper sticker when it was my father's turn to drive my car on the journey to Miami. He got lots of looks, and never understood why. One of the most relevant buttons declared "Stupid people shouldn't breathe." Harsh, right? Well, I might not go that far now that I have fallen victim to stupidity just a few times myself, and my friend C did inform me the other day that we need stupid people. It is better for the rest of us that way. So, after a trip to the Children's Museum today with Pete and Little Pete, I wish I had a button that said "Stupid people should not go out in public."

So many mothers, so many children! Mothers running directly behind their children with looks of panic on their faces that their child may fall, may run into another child, may not get to see every single exhibit on all 4 floors of the museum. This is fine, I can deal with this and Little Pete does not seem to care. He makes his own way around those kids, looking proud that he, at 19-months old, has mastered the rope ladder while the ginormous three-year old is not even allowed to try without holding his mother's hand. I know Run DMC is (was) cool, but good grief, some independence for the for the poor boy!

I really cannot stand cluelessness. Those mothers that, regardless of the fact that you have planted yourself and your son directly in front of the bathroom door, walk right past you and try to get in the door and then look at you like you are trying to sneak in line. Those that somehow have no idea their children are out of control and just took out your son. Those mothers that allow their 8-year olds into the designated rooms for children 6 months to 48 months (I am not trying to be sexist, it just really was all mothers). Yet, even this I can somewhat deal with.

But the worst - what really drives me crazy are those mothers who talk "baby talk" to their children. Why is this appropriate? Why do you want your child arriving at preschool sounding like Mickey Mouse? Why would your embarrass you children in front of complete strangers? These have to be the same people who breast feed their children until they can ask for milk themselves, the same people who never allow their babies to experience the relief of crying, the same people who never set their children down to explore their own surroundings, the same people who are constantly afraid - just constantly afraid. It's just so stupid!! I know they are not my children and I should not care, but Little Pete is going to have to go to school with these kids. These are the pool of children from which he will have to choose his friends. Yikes! Is this why another set of parents start worrying about what preschool their children will get in immediately upon arriving in the delivery room?

The Burbs

This neighborhood we live in is, well, interesting. We really haven't seen anyone come out of their homes all winter and now that it is spring, everyone is coming out of their caves. The neighborhood is a buzz. There are children everywhere, we just are not really sure who they belong to. Where are their parents? The people to the immediate left of us are rarely home. They have kids, but not as many as are in the street in front of our house most nights. Neighbors on the left's children are very suspect. If they happen to catch a glimpse of us, the two boys look at us like they are terrified of the white people next door, and the little girl gives us the grungies.

The woman to the immediate right works from home. We do not understand what she does at home all day, but she is bothered by her other neighbors' trampoline which is situated right outside the window where she works. She is also bothered by the fact that they cut down some trees by the pond - she loves everything in nature. She put up and cares for the wood duck house in our back yard. She has a feeding trough for the ducks and deer. But, apparently she hates squirrels and dislikes that we leave peanuts for those rodents. I only know this because B talks to Peter. Somehow, she is always outside when he is. Weird.

The house two to the left are young realtors. No one in the neighborhood can believe they bought this house that had water damage from a pipe bursting. They believe there are millions of mold spores growing inside that house. They are also on their second set of squatters. I have met all of the free-loaders, but not the people who actually pay the mortgage. There is a new puppy at the house. I am not sure who it belongs to.

Then there is the house across the street. He was terrified of dogs. He walked right along our drive way at the exact moment Pete opened the garage door and Honey ran out ahead of Pete, and Honey bit him. Now he is really terrified of dogs. (See Luka Lost entry - it all makes sense now, right?) His kids are so freaked out now that I think I have actually heard them scream a couples of times when Luka has been outside.

The woman down the road has had a cast on her foot for 12 months. She walks her little white dog up and down the road and has invited me to Buko - I don't know if that is spelled right, I don't know what it is. She was really great friends with the previous owners of our home and seems to be a little angry at us for buying this house. Like if we didn't buy it, they would have never taken that job in Chicago. Did I mention the dog is a little yippy dog?

There is an older man who is always watching out the window every time we drive down the road. I wonder what he is waiting for? His plants to grow? See, he has these tall house plants in pots that he sets out in a line down his sidewalk in the spring. It's weird.

Then there are the people that have absolutely no landscaping except sometimes they set two tiny little pots on their front steps.

Finally there is N and J. They are nice. I thought we all would be great friends - they have a three year old boy (and older children from their first marriages). N is in a church group for moms that she really likes because she can swear. Then last night N started giving me all this information about a fast they were all on to clean out their colons. It was too much. I don't think she even remembers my name and she was telling me about her colon.

This neighborhood is weird. But I am sure if the neighbors had to describe us, this is what they would say:

One has a weird name I never quite caught and one is constantly taking care of the lawn. They play outside with their little boy and then bribe him with shows and snacks to get him back in the house. They let their crazy dog run loose and she scares away the ducks. They have lived here for a year and they have not invited us over. She is always walking into the house with shopping bags and he is always leaving the house with golf clubs. The neighbors are weird.

Punnett Square Magic

This morning I found the little boy that I have seen so many mornings in my husband when he first lets out a stretch and tries so hard to wake himself up. He was the 19-month-old in our bed. The boy who so enthusiastically calls Pete, "Daddy!" Exclamation point nearly every time. This morning Little Pete woke himself up with that same stretch and adorable look on his face. It is such a little boy look, I never understood how my husband had it before. Now I know. He must have had it since he was about 19-months-old. He must have acquired it from his dad - the man my little boy calls Gappa.

When Little Pete first arrived, most people wanted to know who he looked like, who he took after. Until recently, we didn't know exactly. We still can't say who he looks like. The thing is, Peter and I look alike. So, Little Peter has both of our features equally. When Peter and I were in college, and we would walk around holding hands, strangers used to ask whether we were dating or brother and sister. Creepy. I don't have a brother, but I am pretty sure if I did, I would not walk around holding his hand at the age of 21.

While Peter shares both of our facial features, he definitely has other characteristics that follow straight down genetic lines. For instance, my chin has a tendency to jut out when I am angry or stressed. I have no idea how this happens. I don't even know it is happening until I see Peter jutting his chin out in exaggerated fashion to clue me in. This only causes it to slide forward even more. The other day Little Peter was having a hard time making connection between his plastic golf club and a plastic ball. He was visibly frustrated. His chin was sticking out.

Also, when Little Peter finds something he loves, he repeats: "Again? Again?" What can I say, I have an addictive personality. This is why it is better for me just to stay away from certain things - like oreos. I understand that eating one leads eating the entire package. Little Pete's addictive personality currently manifests itself in consuming massive amounts of smoothies. He can't get enough of those things. Peter has decided smoothies are bad for him. I mean, I make them with yogurt, fruit and a splash of OJ, but if he loves them so, they must be bad!

Another trait inherited from me reveals itself in the phrase "I want some." Anytime anyone is eating anything, Little Peter says, "I want some." Growing up, my sisters had a Saturday morning game they liked to play. They would make trip after trip into the kitchen during cartoon commercials to retrieve different snacks, placing bets on how long it would take me to get up and retrieve the exact same thing. What they had always looked better than what I had - even if they just had it.

From Peter, our little boy has acquired a fabulous sense of humor. They both are very funny. His twinkling eyes. His ability to crash and shake it off. And try again. And a deep interest in rocks. All kinds of rocks. They collect them. Peter showcases his in displays at school. Little Peter carries his in pockets to set free later, like bugs.

Other personality traits are not yet determined, but there are some traits that I so hope he will inherit from Pete, that I throw my designated coffee money into wishing fountains. (I still buy the coffee - bank cards are a good thing). First, there is patience. I don't possess that trait. Peter definitely does. He is a junior high school teacher. Last night I watched Memoirs of a Geisha. Talk about patience. Two people in love waited a half a life time to spend the second half of their lives together. And for what? Well, because there was another person in the picture, of course, yet later they decided their love was greater than to let that keep them apart after all! I would have never made it. That guy would have bought me that cherry icy when I was a child and after the luck of finding him again as an adult, if he did not declare his love to me that instant, I would have been gone. Peter and I broke up for a year before we got married. He let me figure things out and he waited for me. I am glad it was not the other way around. I would not have made it. I would have been gone before Peter realized what a terrible mistake he made. I would have waited for about a week, threw a fit that he did not understand how much he loved me, and joined the peace corp or something. While I know patience is a virtue, I have come to grips with the fact that it was not a virtue passed on to me. Hopefully patience is a dominant personality gene. I am sure Little Pete has it. He is just waiting for the perfect time to use it.

I also throw a few dimes into the fountain wishing that Little Pete will have Peter's hair. He has the perfect curls. When he had long hair, I would ask him nicely to put it back in a pony tail when he was with me, because his flowing locks showed up my straight-hanging hair.

Of course, I hope Little Peter grows to Peter's height. At least close. Peter is 6'6". Girls like tall boys. Tall boys are automatically deemed good at basketball. Peter still gets asked by people in public if he plays. He says yes. The question is vague. With a tall husband, there is no need for step stools. With a tall man by your side, you can wear heels as high as you want. My mother was destined to a life of flats. My father has short legs. She has long legs. The last time we were at my parent's house, my nephew performed some crazy science magic with the use of a Punnett Square. He spent a lot of time making boxes and when he finally looked up he declared that Little Peter would grow to 6'2". Good enough.

But the most highly anticipated trait - the toes. I throw quarters into the fountains hoping that Little Peter will have my toes. It's not that my toes are so great, it's just that Peter's are so bad (Sorry Peter, I wish your mother would not have deprived you of shoes that fit). Little Peter has more shoes than a 19-month old needs. It is either provide lots of toe room or figure out how to crack the code to those Punnett Square things.

knuckle down

It is only the second day of what already feels to be a very long week. I just had a very big project go away and I am left feeling a little depressed. This always happens to me when something big goes away. It happened after law school graduation, it happened after the bar exam, and it happened after winning summary judgment on my first huge case. Times that normally are times for celebration, but they always carry an element of sadness for me. It gives me time. Time to reflect on what I have done and what I am doing with my life. Don't get me wrong, I feel wonderful about what I believe is my greatest accomplishment - Little Pete. But, I mean all the other stuff.

In many respects, I feel my life has gone backwards. One of my first jobs was my dream job. (No, not serving at Planet Hollywood!) While I was in law school, I started down the path to my ideal career. I worked with domestically abused immigrant women helping them acquire U.S. citizenship in Miami. The job was so fulfilling and rewarding. Those type of positions weren't available in Minneapolis. So I tried the Hennepin County Attorney's Office, Violent Crime Division. The trial I worked on while I was there resulted in the conviction of a rapist who should have been locked up years before. Again, very rewarding. Again, no positions. On to private practice - civil litigation, I hadn't tried that yet. I started working on plaintiff personal injury and civil rights cases. I believed as long as I was working in the civil rights area, and working for the "little person," I was still true to my calling. The problem - I couldn't stand the clients. What I did not understand earlier, that I soon learned, was that plaintiffs in civil rights cases are usually not just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, onto the defense. Representing the machine. At least that is what I thought defense work meant in law school. Now I understand the term frivolous. That is where I am at this point. Most of the time I like it and most of the time I am satisfied with it. But there are those days when I question, "What am I doing?" There has to be something more!

And then there is the social side of my life. What happened to the party girl - the dancer in me? Well, she is still there, she just is not at the clubs until 2 a.m., because she is tired at 10 p.m. K - I still dance like a maniac in the living room. Hardwood floors and socks are the best for getting your groove on and perfecting the Taylor Hicks! But the other day I was going through boxes and found my little Miami dress and those great red pants I had on for New Year's Eve 2000. I sighed, and put them back in the box. Well actually, first I tried on the dress and broke out in dance when I realized it fit - like a glove, but it is supposed to, and then I put them back in the box. I am quite sure I will never wear them again - at least not outside the walls of my house. But I want to!

So, what should I make of all this? Part of me says just be happy, its pretty good. My friend who recently moved told me 70% happiness was the target goal. I think I have more than that. But the other part of me wants even more. More, more, more! This is both a strength and a weakness that I have always had. As long as I am not supersizing my McDonald's orders, I think it is okay. My mother used to tell me that I would never miss out on anything for lack of asking (or begging). She meant this in a bad way, but I choose to hear it as a positive. At the same time, she told me repeatedly to never settle. So far, I don't believe I have.

I will turn 30 in less than 2 months and I am still asking. The problem is, I don't always understand what I am asking for. I actually am afraid of what I will miss out on if I don't ask, so on occasion I ask for more than I can handle. The dilemma is best sung by Ani Difranco:

i think i'm done gunnin to get closer
to some imagined bliss
i gotta knuckle down
and just be ok with this
i'm gonna knuckle down
just be ok with this
'course that star struck girl is already someone i miss

I want to be learn to be satisfied, because I am. But I don't want to forget that "star struck girl." I am not sure where the next path will take me or when. Until then, I am going to be ok with this. Unless someone is free to go dancing Friday night?

One Art by: Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

**I always liked this poem. I had a friend leave to start a new life. I am sad for my loss.

Things he learned from me . . .

You have to have at least one sweet move . . .


Sometimes yelling works . . .


Oreos are good!

Making Room for Error?

The morning regiment with Little Pete* has no room for error. I need exactly an hour from the time we leave the house to get into my office. This hour includes driving to A's for day care, playing at A's for a little while, stopping for Starbucks to go, driving into downtown Minneapolis, and parking Saabrina (my car) in my building's ramp. Exactly one hour.

Yesterday we had error - make that errors. I had a meeting set up for 9:00 a.m. This meant Little Pete and I had to pull out of the driveway at precisely 8:00 a.m. Easy, right? No. 7:30 a.m. the call to Little Pete - Morning, Glory! Rise and shine. Little Pete decided he wanted to sleep in and no budge would make him rise until he decided on his own that he was ready to shine. And shine he did (he always does). By the time Little Pete accepted it was morning, I had already dressed in a very smart outfit, and we headed downstairs. On the way down, the strap on my black heel unexpectedly broke. No explanation. One second everything is in tact, next second it is not. This caused a change to the entire outfit because I did not have another pair of black heels suitable for the outfit. This caused me to curse Peter out loud because I used to have numerous black heels until he constantly complained that I could only wear so many. Last night I went out and bought two new pair. Maybe I will get another tomorrow. So, an outfit change and back downstairs.

We usually don't have breakfast in the morning. Little Pete eats at A's. However, for some reason he was in the mood for cereal - get the cereal. No, he wants a muffin! Get a muffin. No, now he wants Peanut butter on something - on anything! Make a peanut butter sandwich. Out the door. To A's. Now cries of panic that Little Pete will not get his way of having me stay and play with him. Extra play, play, play. Wave goodbye. To Starbucks. To work. My parking card is lost. It has disappeared. I can't find it anywhere. Walk quickly into the office at precisely - 9:01 a.m. I am late. Only by a minute, but I am late.

I know this does not sound like a big deal, but occasionally Peter and I discuss a second child. I discuss whether we are going to have a second child and Peter discusses when we are going to have a second child. He firmly believes that no one deserves to be an only child. He also believes that there is some precise calculation to the spread of child 1 and child 2. This calculation begins with "trying" in August. Don't ask - it all has to do with how long he thinks it will take and his summer break (Peter is a teacher). August is soon. I am unsure. I feel like I don't have a minute to spare. Yesterday is a case in point, I don't have a minute to spare. Actually, I need two more minutes, at least. Peter tells me no one is ever sure about child 2; you just take that leap. Feels like a leap off a bridge to me. However, this is not much different than how it felt when we first thought of the idea of Little Pete, and that has gone pretty well. Since then I have been enjoying the free fall.

I was once convinced by my friend's crazy brother to jump off a 36' cliff in Mexico into a deep senote. When he first suggested the idea I thought there was no way he could be serious, so I told on him - to his father. Crazy boy's father exclaimed, "Let's do it!" So we trudged to the top of the cliff with our Mexican friend who assured us it was safe - no rocks or anything in the water, or if there are, they are 150 feet down. Crazy boy first. Then crazy boy's father. Next, it was my turn. I stood at the top motionless. I wanted to jump so badly but I was afraid something crazy might happen. Like maybe that day the gods said, "third person dies." But then there was the other force - my friend's mom standing on the other side of the senote yelling, "A, don't do it! Maybe you shouldn't do it!" At that moment, I heard what she heard - my mother's voice in her head reprimanding her for letting this happen to me. With one swift move, I jumped. Toothpick style. It was a rush. But I have not gathered the courage to do it again! Or maybe I just haven't been pushed hard enough.

I just don't know. We are on a strict schedule. I suppose I could adjust the schedule . . .

*After looking back at earlier posts, I realized I never explained that my child's and husband's names definitely are not Pete, Peter, or Little Pete. Just names I like to call them. It's a long story.

Hunting for Plastics Eggs

Little Pete

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I have posted in my profile that I am from Minneapolis. I was told today that I no longer live in Minneapolis. Correct. But somehow this is what I automatically wrote down. I lived in Minneapolis for over 5 years before we moved to the great suburb of Eagan. It is not that I am ashamed in some way to say I moved to the suburbs. While I never thought I would, I was never (I hope) one of the city snobs that look down their noses at those who leave the city. I think the reason I automatically wrote Minneapolis is because I work there. I feel like I spend my real time there. I have just a few hours of leisure time (if I am lucky) in Eagan, and I sleep in Eagan.

Or maybe it is because I haven't fully committed to Eagan. I can do it at this time of the year on a day like today when it was 75 degrees outside and I sat outside all night on the deck with friends (and frogs). But I cannot commit in the middle of winter when it is 10 degrees. I can't even commit to 50 degrees! Peter tells me I need to take up a winter sport to help me with the commitment problem. I agreed next winter - if I am in Minnesota - I will learn to snowboard. Will I follow through? I said I will do it, but someone once told me nothing is ever 100%, so I am going to stick with that. After all, something crazy could happen and by that time I might need to change my profile address to Miami. Who knows? You never can say for sure.

Ah . . . Miami. I wish I could say that I live in Miami. I did, once, for a short but wonderful 3 months. I came back to Minnesota to finish law school and made a vow (a VOW - that is huge) to my Miami. I would be back some day. I will - but if I had to put a percentage on it, I would say the chances of the that are between 50-100%. Place your bets. Let me just say this so you have the whole story - there is no other city quite like Miami. Even though you already have all your belongings in another city (including your family) it sucks you in. And I am not speaking of South Beach, although I do think South Beach is quite spectacular, but the "real" Miami. The best things about Miami are the little hidden places that it does not reveal to just anyone. The places you are told about by others: Tap Tap, Versailles on Calle Ocho, Tobacco Road, the quaint little ice cream place on Sunset Boulevard, the tiny hut across the street from where I worked serving THE best cafe con leche, the "restaurant" around the corner, which was actually an elderly Cuban woman who opened her front window and hung a sign. I love it. And then there is that feeling - the feeling of being in many different countries all at the same time. The feeling of everyone being different, yet the same at the same time. I love it. Beinvenidos a Miami.

Did I mention that my official post office address city is St. Paul?

Making it Up

When I married Peter, I never knew he would be such a great father. In fact, we both agreed that we would not have children. I had issues about being pregnant, which were totally unfounded, at least after I learned to disregard the way others felt about my choices, mainly not nursing. It just was not for me. For one, the vanity thing comes into play again, two, "equal roles" makes another appearance, and three, selfishness (yes, I can admit it). I had already sacraficed nine months of my body being hijacked by this little creature and there was no way I was going to have him controlling me anymore. I am the boss of me! If I had to wake up in the middle of the night to feed Little Pete, Peter would wake up for the next round of cries. I know some will be outraged when I say this, but it was a great thing.

There is nothing quite like experiencing your husband as a father. Especially a father whom you are confident takes as good of care of your child, if not better, than you. I do think Peter is a better parent than I am. First, he is simply a fabulous person. Second, he has just the right balance of wanting Pete to wear a joyous smile on his face, yet the desire to have him be well-adjusted child who understands respect, dignity and class. I tend to lose sight of those developing qualities when Little Pete is crying. On occasion, my heart melts and I accidentially give him all the ice cream he demands to soothe his pain of not getting his way! (I understand where he is coming from). This leads to the question/reprimand by Peter, "Cheddar, are you sure that was the best thing to do in the situation?" (As you can tell, the terms of affection in our family are anything but normal - I can't ever remember being called "babe" or "sweetie").

I strive to be as good at parenting as Peter, but we are in this together. We remind each other often of the best parenting advice I ever was given - we are all making it up as we go along. Nobody can plan exactly what they will do or say when you see your son walking around with your bra on his head; when he has dumped the entire box of cereal on the floor and is hitting the dog because she is eating it; or when he has discovered the joys of toilet paper and has shoved the entire roll in the right place - the toilet. But with Peter to guide me, I am confident we will figure it out. And hopefully, we will not have messed him up too badly.

Backyardigans

The Backyardigans is Little Pete's favorite show. Most mornings, after he visits the ducks, he asks, "show?" He is referring to his desire to watch the Backyardigans. It really is a great show. I like it even as an adult, so I can understand the constant questioning, which turns into demanding, and the disappointed cries that turn into a tantrum upon being told, "not right now," most mornings. This morning was a turn for the better, I think. Upon opening his eyes, a new question formed on his sweet little lips, "outside?"

Nature Lovers

Somehow every single frog in the Blackhawk Forest neighborhood knew tonight was the perfect night to come out of hibernation. Last night - silence. Tonight - the endless croaking of Green Life celebrating spring. When we bought this house, which we have lived in for almost a year now, we were told that the people before us could not sleep with the windows open because the frogs were too noisy. Little Pete calls them "chatty." Luckily, my son had no problem leaving the noisy streets of the city and adapting to the noisy musings of the various animals living in the pond and woods behind our house. He still wakes up every morning, makes the journey down the stairs (a long one for him since he is determined to travel upright - without help) and runs to the window to check out the ducks. "Duck" was his first word. Smart, right? You might think so until I disclose that birds and squirrels are interchangeable. Why wouldn't every thing that sits on a tree branch be a bird? This is the test - not flying. You see, ducks fly. Also, anything that sits in the pond is a duck. Therefore, geese are ducks. The coyote that visited our pond this winter, well, that was not a duck, but a dog, of course. Moose, Antelope, Goats - they all fall in the deer category. His big cousin M would be very disappointed by this.

M (13) is the hunter in the family, along with his dad. He has been in the RKD Newsleader for killing a record-breaking size fish and "buck" - but not in the same year, so he still has something to strive for. The last time we went to visit, we did not see M for the entire day because he was out in the woods looking for "sheds." What are sheds, right? Well, if you are my good friend S (same friend as the one who was scared of me as a child) you would say, "sheds? You can't take sheds, don't they belong to someone?" Of course not! These are not the sheds in which you keep your lawn mower. "Sheds" are the horns that deer lose at this time of the year, and if you are an avid hunter and all around outdoorsman, you collect them. Maybe even hang them on your wall as if you did more than just walked through the woods searching for this hard-found treasure.

Most members of my family love to fish. We used to take a family vacation in the summer where those family members who did not spend the entire day laying in sun drinking beer (i.e, me) went fishing. I know I disclosed in a previous blog that I have gone fishing to win the approval of my father, but vacation fishing is fishing on an entirely different level - you cannot bring your crayons along and you certainly cannot make forts over the boat seats with your beach towels and then take a nap. There are no bathroom breaks, which is perfectly fine for those who can pee standing up. Also, you have to have a very high B.S. tolerance for these fishing trips. And you really cannot have an opinion because all room for difference of opinion is occupied by my father and brother-in-law, and very loudly at that. There is no room for another opinion - Peter has tried, now he just has another beer, and reluctantly goes along to the next "hot spot" that has been disclosed by the local at the Buck Snort Lodge. The last "hot spot" involved Peter tracking 2 miles through the brush to come upon a tiny pond. He spent all his time there attending to C (4 at the time) another nephew, who was denied a bathroom break before the journey and was left yelling out of the trees, "I'm done!" While my brother-in-law spent his time trying to recover his new six dollar lure, which flew off upon first cast - it involved taking his pants off. And my father, yelling over C, "Put the cover back on the worms! Don't let the worms dry out!" And B (16) pondering, "I bet the fishing is a lot better on the other side of the water. If we could only get to the other side of the water. How could we get to the other side of this water? Then we could get a Mounter." (The term for a fish, or any animal, actually, that is big enough to mount on a board and be displayed in some bar which inevitably ends up looking ridiculous in a party hat). I am sorry I missed that one.

My mother likes to fish, but she never baits the hook. She has always declared "someone has to keep their hands clean to serve lunch." As a child this seemed reasonable. More than twenty years later, I can't believe these words still come out of her mouth and my father still nods his head in understanding. Maybe he really doesn't want worm guts on his sandwich. My mother really is more of the music person. She knows exactly what music to bring on vacation to a cabin, on a lake in the middle of nowhere, with birds chirping, frogs singing and water splashing against the peaceful shores. Of course, if this your vacation destination, you would want someone along who thought enough to bring the "Ella Fitzgerald" song, the one that goes, "We fired our guns but the British kept acomin'" (I can't believe I do not know the name of that song), and of course, you would not want your music person to forget the "Sounds of Nature" CD. All this and Bob Marley too. As for me, I will just sleep with the windows open - covered with heavy blankets, of course. As much as I love this place, I am not cut out for this weather - a topic for the next entry.

Greyhounds

The shoe is on the hand it fits,
there's really nothing much to it,
Whistle through your teeth and spit, 'cause, its alright.
Oh well a touch of grey,
kind of suits you anyway,
That's all I have to say, but, it's alright.

The Grateful Dead. My husband's long-time favorite. Over the years, I have heard a lot of The Dead (I think that is what you call them - just The Dead- if you are one of the cool kids). I immediately liked the music. I have always been drawn to lyrics that have been thought about (even if the thought process is aided - we all need inspiration) rather than lyrics by artists that write about whatever pops in their head and ends up being a horrible waste of time, i.e., "My Grillz." Nelly can do better than that - "It's Getting Hot in Here" - I bet he thought about the lyrics for that song a little longer. "Take off all your clothes" - it is a novel idea.

Even after being subjected to "Touch of Grey" by my hippy boyfriend (I called him "partner" at the time), now husband, I just did not like this song. I thought he was trying to brainwash me. Grey areas are important to many people. In my experience, males more so than females. I think it goes hand in hand with fear of commitment. For instance, after dating Peter for 3 months, I wanted (needed) to know what our status was. I am sure he thought I was probing too far into things, but really, it was just that I was going on spring break. Instead of a straightforward answer, I received this long mess about over-analyzing, pushing things, whatever it is supposed to be it will be. Understand? To me that meant we were not serious and definitely not boyfriend and girlfriend. If we were, he would have just said so, right? But let me come back from Mexico having kissed another boy and the situation was no longer so grey. Now things were perfectly clear- he was my boyfriend and there would be no more kissing other boys. A converted Greyhound.

I do not believe in "grey" - no shades of "grey" or "gray." Things are pretty clear in my mind - there are no colors washing together. I love some thing or I hate it, and I know very quickly which it is. Don't ask me again. I will not change my mind. Decisiveness is a virtue in my world. It takes me one visit to the car dealership and one test drive to buy a car. I do not need to study consumer reports to figure out which appliances I should have installed. I have never had guilt over breaking up with the lovely women and men who have cut my hair over the years - you mess it up, you are gone. If I mess up in my job, I get sued, so I have no problem breaking it off.

My first year of law school I found myself in a bad situation that was doomed to fail from the very beginning. I had a roommate in very close quarters - there was no wall dividing our space. Upon first meeting her, I thought there could not be a person in the whole world who did not like . . . Jane. She was sooo sweet. She loved nature - her dream was to practice environmental law. She volunteered on Sundays instead of going to church because she was sure that was what the creator wanted. She wasn't obsessed by her appearance (at least outwardly). She was soft spoken with the tone of a child. Approximately one month into the situation and I could not stand her! This was the one time in my life where I misjudged someone. I think I just wanted a new friend so badly that I was willing to shut off that no-miss, people-judging button. Yes, I am a judger. But not about bad things, I would never judge someone by the clothes they wear, how much or how little money they have, where they went to school (except for those preppie ivy school kids, it is usually inseparable from the overall picture - there are exceptions to every rule). It is judgment based on meeting a lot of people and that gut reaction that we all have. My gut just usually does a fantastic job. Not with Jane. Soon, that soft spoken childish voice was like nails on a chalk board. The environmentalist and volunteer girl were over played. And then she started crying to me about boy problems! Just like that, I broke up with her. That made sharing a room very awkward. Mutual friends asked me to change my mind (greyhounds), but I had already had told her (while drinking in excess) that we could no longer be friends. So that was that.

Grey simply does not exist in my color spectrum. Grey is for the hopelessly stuck. If a silver lining is seen, it is only because attention has been momentarily diverted. It is liberating to admit that some things really are black and white. Only after acknowledging "when its even worse than it appears, it's [not] alright" can you move beyond grey to red, purple, orange, or something even better.

Time of the Caveman

I hate references to how men and women are different. Most times I believe this to be an excuse why husbands don't do the dishes, don't do the laundry, don't clean toilets. Not my husband of course - while there are "disagreements" on occasion, as a former chair of my college's Women's Equality Group (WEG), my house(I mean our house) presents equal opportunities. Don't get me wrong, we certainly do not have the June and Ward picture (or surprisingly, my father's parents' picture)of standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes together. My husband and I are more the divide and conquer - types. Why shouldn't he relax while I am giving our son a bath? And why shouldn't I dream in the bathtub with a glass of wine while he is soothing our son during the evening wake-up session?

I do have a confession to make. I refuse to mow the lawn. It was a condition of marriage (I am not joking). It arises from being Daddy's girl and an evening at the dinner table when my mother announced that I was old enough to start mowing the lawn. The next day, I set out to mow the lawn. My father came out to "teach" me. I threw a holy fit claiming I knew what I was doing and just because he was a man did not mean he could do it better than me! That evening at the dinner table my father proclaimed that I was busy enough with school and there was no reason to make me mow the lawn. So, you see, it is my father's fault.

Also, I don't iron. It's not my clothes. My husband usually cooks the meals. He gets home first. He cleans up the mess in the dog run. I am too pretty (and apparently too vain). He changes the light bulbs. It only takes one person. He arranges for car maintenance and repair. I hear service shops are sexist and take advantage of women. Okay, so maybe it is not "equal" in the sense that we are doing the same things, but we both have equal responsibilities - to some extent. And it works - to some extent. I don't care how many different ways he tries to explain why emptying the dishwasher is not his job, primarily because he mows the lawn, lawn mowing is seasonal and dishwasher duties are once, sometimes twice a day! Did I mention he currently is out playing poker and I am home with our son? I better find something to do tomorrow night . . .

Luka Lost

It has been a week
since we said goodbye to Honey.

Luka waits.
At the door.
At the top of the stairs.
Beneath the couch.

Luka has never had to test
her own personality. When in doubt,
she relied on Honey's charm, sad, loving eyes,
and most times, sheer craziness.

Now what?
Moments of uncertainty await.
The moment before a walk.
The moment before a treat is given.
The moment before a pat on the back.
The moment before the car door opens.
The moments during the day when no one is watching
(except those captured by the video camera).

Where there once was chaos
(and in the later moments, loud panting)
a still silence looms.
Where Luka pranced with her head held high, proud,
she now walks paths over and over -
carefully watching her paws hit the ground.
A mindless distraction.

After constant clicking on the hardwood-
After barks of panic immediately upon human entry to the home-
After the joy of rolling in mud, yes mud -
After furious licking upon attention freely given -
After Honey,
Luka,
Like the rest of us,
is lost.

Backyard Peace

Watchful

Namesake

I used to hate when people told me I did anything "like a girl." You see, I am the third and last child - the third and last girl (I also understand the meaning of the canyon-size gap between me and my parents' second daughter). Being the third child with two exisiting girls in the family also meant, despite the lack of seeking a doctor's opinion, my parents held an unshakable belief the third child would be a son - named Matthew. Then I showed up. I am unmistakably (thank god) a girl. However, I spent much of my childhood trying to be everything I thought a son would be to my father. I played catch in the backyard. I went fishing on the weekends - baiting the hooks with a smile on face (but I still have not figured out how to get the fish off the hook). I even held frog race tournaments in the street in front of our house.

Now don't get me wrong, I did all this and still my greatest hobby was playing with Barbies. My friends and I spent hours upon hours with Barbie. We held marathon weekends in each others' basements designing the perfect home for Barbie in which to hold the perfect party for Barbie and her friends, and Ken. And of course, choosing Barbie's outfit(s) for the party. I loved Barbie, even though the traditional Barbie was fair skinned and blonde, which is very far from how I would describe myself. I am caucasion, but as a child, in the summer, I have been mistaken for both African American and American Indian (One of my best friends today was afraid of me at the age of 4 because she had never seen anyone who looked like me in our small town. This no longer happens since becoming an adult. Sadly, I no longer have eight hours a day to frolick in the water and sun as I did at the age of eight, and later in my teenage years, twelve hours a day teaching swimming lessons and life guarding). I soon gravitated towards Aloha Barbie. But, when Barbie was asleep, I was back to being my father's sidekick.

I am sure my father was disappointed about many things about not having a son. For instance, I quit playing ball before we even moved past using the tee. It was quite the tramatic experience, actually. I was hit in the head with a ball. I had no idea what to do after someone actually hit the ball off the tee. I certainly wasn't thinking that someone in the outfield was going to throw the ball to second while I was conversing with short stop about the kick-the-can event scheduled for the evening. Oh well, I quit Brownies too, so I thought that put me back to neutral. Then came kissing boys at a very early age . . . like 6.

The number of years I actually have embraced my feminine qualities now outnumber the years I tried to disguise them. I once hated pink. It is now my favorite color. My hair behaves best when it is curled. I never, never leave the house without applying lipstick (this rule is especially important when wearing a hat). And finally, I can acknowlege that I run, throw and scream . . . like a girl.