(Non)Winter (Non)Weather

I never figured myself for one of those crotchety old windbags who spends all her spare time complaining about the weather, and yet here I am, spending all my spare time complaining about the weather. In large part because the winter we've had has been so weird that I'm not even sure what season it is right now. It's 60°F outside right now. I mean, honestly. All the trees are starting to bud. I can see pollen in the air. I've had a sinus situation going on since August, when Hurricane Irene hit, and there is no foreseeable end in sight, because it hasn't been cold enough for long enough to kill whatever winter mold I'm allergic to, and now I'm getting smacked in the face with the spring stuff that sends me into my own personal circle of hay fever hell.

But that's not why I'm really gretzing.

   

We had snow back in October, right before Halloween. We were grossly underprepared, as per usual. Shae didn't have snow boots or a new coat or mittens or any of that stuff. She went out to "play" in the snow in her pajamas and galoshes that were a skosh too small. I was mortified, as you can imagine, especially because I had all my Christmas shopping basically done at that point, but I wasn't prepared for winter. The very next weekend, she got two new coats and a pair of snow pants from my mother-in-law, and two pairs of long johns from my parents, and some nice gloves from LL Bean that remind me a bit of my old Freezy Freakies from back in the '80s, and a nice pair of fuzz-lined boots that I deliberately bought a size too big so she could put on two pairs of socks and thermal underwear and still get her boots to close properly.

   

And then ... it basically stopped being winter. These pictures are from almost a month ago, February 12th, the last time it snowed in these parts. The time before that, it was the end of January. The time before that was ... Halloween. That's it. Three snows in one winter, if you define the winter as "whenever it starts snowing to whenever it stops snowing," as they do in Syracuse. I mean, I freaking HATE winter, but even I am like, "The HELL?" Now it's March, and today it's 60°F, and my Weather Channel iPhone app is calling for high temperatures of 60°F or higher for seven of the next ten days, with an average high of 58°F.

   

So why am I complaining, you ask? Aside from this upper respiratory clusterduck that I have going on? BECAUSE THOSE GOSH DARN BRAND-NEW BOOTS DON'T FIT ANY MORE, and she's only worn them TWICE. That's why. Stupid weather.

Nü Mäth

I’ve been doing some prep work for these standardized tests that I need to take as part of my grad school stuff -- the Praxis Pre-Professional Skills Tests, which are tests that determine whether or not you are smarter than a 5th grader, basically -- and I have to say that I don’t think there is anybody or anything anywhere in the world that is better at making me feel inadequate than the Educational Testing Service.

(BTW, here is the tl;dr version, if you don’t feel like listening to my first-world, white-girl problems: algebra and geometry give me hives.)

Probably it’s ridiculous, but I worry about standardized tests. I’m not entirely sure why, because I’ve always been a decent test-taker. I remember taking the Iowa Tests back in maybe second or third grade, when I was still in Catholic school, and then something else again in 8th grade, maybe, where a Fairly Big Deal was made out of the fact that I was one of the handful of people in my class who got a perfect score in the math portion, and I ended up getting my whole schedule reconfigured because the school wanted to move me up from the pre-algebra class that I was in at the time into a more advanced math class that some of the gifted kids were in, and basically my life was over at that point because I wasn’t in any classes with The Love Of My Life At The Time any more.

(And people wonder why I grew up to be distrustful of Authority.)

To this day, it bemuses me to no end that I’ve always tested better in math than in verbal. I still don’t know why. I am absolutely terrible at math, or at least I’ve always thought so. I can barely balance a checkbook. The only “F” I ever got in a class in my entire life was during my Freshman year at Syracuse, in Probability and Statistics II, which -- OK, yes, technically I might not have done very well on account of missing more than 50% of the classes, but this was during that one college semester when I had my existential crisis and dated three gay guys in a row and started chain-smoking Camel unfiltereds, and anyway, in my own defense I didn’t start skipping classes until well after I started failing them. (Also, the professor for that class was NINE KINDS OF TERRIBLE, and he wore white polyester leisure suits unbuttoned to the navel ALL THE TIME, I kid you not.)

Although, here is what I believe they call “irony”: I kind of use math all day every day since I have an “accounting-related” function at work, and I'm pretty good at it. But I don’t do much that couldn’t also be done by a potty-trained monkey with a basic understanding of Excel and an adding machine. (And actually, I’m not even entirely sure that the monkey would need to be potty-trained.)

I still have never used anything they attempted to teach me in trigonometry, though.

Anyway, when I took the SAT’s in 11th grade, the last standardized test I had to take -- which, by the way, was MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS AGO, if you are playing the home version of our game -- I did fine. Because my brain remembers bullshit that doesn’t matter like SAT scores, I can still tell you that I scored 1340 on my SAT’s (this was back during the Paleolithic period, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and the SAT only had two sections and no essay and a perfect score was 1600) -- 660 verbal, and 680 math. It took me two tries to get my verbal score that high. Back then, and still now, I look at that score and I think, “Wait, what? WHAT?”

Because I absolutely STINK OUT LOUD at algebra and geometry, which if I recall correctly combined to make up about 148% of the math portion of the SAT’s.

And I was reminded about much I stink out loud at algebra and geometry when I took a practice Praxis test last night, where I was staring at these graphics that showed all these shapes floating in space and rectangles with cutouts in them and hypotenuses of equilateral triangles (which don’t even HAVE hypotenuses, I don’t think) (side note: WTF IS A HYPOTENUSE!?) and equations that involved fractions and variables and orders of operations and sometimes things were capitalized and sometimes they were not and there was a lot of ∑ and √ and πr² and DEAR GOD, ISN’T THERE ANYTHING EASIER THAN THIS I COULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW? Like studying ancient Sanskrit from a Latin translation? Anything?

Plus, when I yelled into the other room for help with something that I thought I actually remembered how to do -- yes, it’s cheating, but I wanted to feel like I was at least somewhere in the same state as the ballpark for a few questions that did not involve calculating a tip or determining the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow -- my husband answered back with this bit about how there is no such thing as cross-multiplication unless you’re an angry mathematician, and then he chuckled to himself for, like, two whole minutes.

ENGINEERS ARE NOT FUNNY, YOU GUYS.

So I know that I need to do a WHOLE LOT of reviewing for the math part of this Praxis exam. I guess this weekend I’ll check around in my parents’ garage and see if I still have any of my old Prob & Stats textbooks lying around, but I’m pretty sure that I sold those sumbitches as soon as I retook the class and finally passed. (A-, FTW!) If G has any old college math books, they’re probably for Calculus or Nuclear Fission or something else that’s above my level. My standard reference book, Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary, defines “polynomials” and “quadratic equations” and “cosine,” but it still doesn’t tell me what those words MEAN. I need to go back and re-learn how to solve for x, and try to remember what I know about 3-4-5 right triangles.

They’ll have to hold a gun to my head to get me to care about trigonometry, though.

Inside The Actor's Studio

It's probably a good thing that I got out of the theater when I did. Let's ignore for a minute that I lack the necessary talent and ambition to make it as an actor, and also the necessary temperament -- what I really worry about is that I never would have been able to handle the heartbreak of falling hopelessly, helplessly, head-over-heels into (mostly unrequited) love with all of my co-stars.

(Okay, "co-stars" might be a bit of an over-exaggeration, since I was always just a member of the supporting cast, but still.)

Let me provide you with the examples, lest you think I am joking.

• Seventh grade, "The Hobbit" -- I played a dwarf (either Dwalin or Balin, I can never remember which), and developed a terrible crush on the guy who played Gollum. He was in my 6th period study hall, and we would pass notes via a mutual friend, and repeatedly make plans to meet up for pizza on Friday nights after our high school's football games. After the third broken "date" because my parents determined that 12 years old was probably too young for me to be dating boys, he stopped passing notes, and I ended up spending three weeks in complete tears.
• Eighth grade, "South Pacific" -- I was a chorus girl, and I feel hard for the guys who played Stewpot, Emile, and Luther Billis. The first two crushes never amounted to much (primarily because they both already had hot 9th-grade girlfriends who allegedly "put out"), but on the cast trip to NYC that spring, I got drunk or high or whatever off of an entire canister of Binaca breath spray and spent the entire bus ride home French-kissing Luther Billis. We "dated" for a month or so, before I realized that (1) he was kind of gross and (2) the smell of Polo kind of makes me want to throw up, and he used to practically swim in that stuff. Not sure which of these facts occurred to me first.
• Ninth grade, "Li'l Abner" -- I played one of the Dogpatch Wives, and I had crushes on both of the guys who played my Dogpatch Husbands (yes, both the "Before" and the "After" Yokumberry tonic versions), and they both basically thought I was a ridiculous fool who kept following them around with puppy dog eyes, humming stupid love songs all the time. Not a lot of 9th-graders were listening to Anita Baker, after all. At this point someone probably should have had me committed or at least staged an intervention, but I'm pretty sure that all my friends thought I was the most spectacularly, hilariously dumb person who ever lived.
• Tenth grade, "Annie Get your Gun" -- Another turn as a chorus girl, and crushes on two of the gayest human beings who have ever lived. Both of them dropped numerous hints and yet were astounded to discover that I could not get a clue. Thus begins my storied history of gay ex-boyfriends (even though, technically, neither of these guys were ever my actual boyfriend).
• Eleventh grade, "Our Town" -- Oh sweet Jesus. I played Rebecca Gibbs, and I fell in love with the guy who played George (my brother, in the show), and this crush remains legendary for spawning one of the most transparently obvious "anonymously submitted" sonnets in the history of Mrs. Trimble's 4th period British Literature class. This poem is SO BAD, you guys, and I have Facebook friends out there who can vouch for it. I don't know why nobody stuffed me in my own locker for the remainder of my junior and senior years in high school.

What? You actually want to read this terrible, awful, treacly, disgustingly amateur sonnet, this love poem that I wrote to a boy who basically thought I was the biggest nuisance in the history of ever? Are you sure? Well, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. You might want to have an airsickness bag or similar device handy, because I am telling you -- this is so junior-year-of-high-school-English-class-unrequited-love poem.

The moonlight dances on the windowsill,
The wind echoes your name against the glass.
It's January now, but I think still
Of scenes we shared, performed November past.
Distinctly I remember, in the play,
You were my brother George -- sixteen, in love.
"I love money," I was supposed to say,
But no one knew it was you that I thought of.
And as upon the ladder we both stood,
You gave a line that I thought quite ironic;
Manipulate the facts as best I could,
The word for us will always be "platonic."
As far as I'm concerned, well now I know.
"There's only room for one at this window."

I mean, honestly, could you just die, or what? That right there is some of the worst poetry in the history of the written word, is it not? And yet I somehow figured that by writing this down and handing it in for a class assignment and having someone read it out loud that perhaps, just maybe, it would get back to him and he would have no choice but to fall instantly, desperately in love with me. What a goofbucket I was back then.

In retrospect, I really should have learned to deploy The Wonder Twins (i.e., my boobs) sooner in my dating career. Although considering the number of gay ex-boyfriends I have, I'm not sure it would have mattered much anyway.

• Twelfth grade, "The Sting" -- I played two parts in this show, one of which was a cop or an FBI agent or something whom our director decided to play like some kind of femme fatale, and there is quite a story here that ultimately ends up with my husband, and since we are now literally 20 years after the fact, I can say at least that this particular (and particularly devastating, eventually) crush began with a comically misguided attempt to get a date to a Christmas dance that everyone else was going to, a whole lot of double-entendres, a black trench coat, fishnet stockings, a really spectacular push-up bra from Victoria's Secret that I wish I still fit into because it really was something, and a slew of high school students running around backstage in their underwear because we pretty much completely lacked adult supervision.
• Freshman year in college, "West Side Story" -- I was Anybodys, and I fell in "little love" with Tony and "BIG LOVE" with Baby John, and I don't even think I told my parents this but there was a period of about a month where I was seriously considering converting to Judaism because Baby John's father was a rabbi and I was willing to do whatever I needed to because I really thought I was going to marry that boy, so you can imagine how much it destroyed me to walk in on him kissing another girl who already WAS Jewish.

Wow. That was longer than I expected it to be. The good news is that right after "West Side Story" I decided that I didn't really want to be an actor any more, just a person who dated actors, and not too long after that (but, sadly, after a non-zero number of gay ex-boyfriends) I met my husband, so it worked out pretty well for me.

(And that's what you missed when last night's "Glee" made me remember all this crap in the first place.)

Ten at 20

On this day, twenty years ago, I was a week away from becoming a high school senior. Seventeen years old, with all the naïve and undeveloped and insufferable swagger that comes with being that age. I knew everything there was to know about everything at that point, figured it all out myself, and anybody who disagreed with me was flat-out wrong and stupid, and I told them so every chance I got.

(Hey, I never said I changed much in the last 20 years; I was just younger then. No less loud, no less opinionated, only a little less likely to be uncompromising in my beliefs, no more patient, and significantly more likely to be wearing tattered cut-offs and ripped fishnets and red jelly shoes. The biggest differences now are (1) that I know that I don't actually know everything, I just act like I do, and (2) in the last two decades I have learned how to call people stupid in about eight different languages.)

I was in the choir and I was a band groupie and I occasionally hung out with other fledgling "artists" and "writers," and by association I ended up listening to a lot of different kinds of music. My favorite records tended to be punk and post-punk and new wave and American college radio: the Clash, the Ramones, the Cure, the Smiths, Elvis Costello, R.E.M. – lots and lots of R.E.M., especially Document – Concrete Blonde.

(Most people, to this day, probably do not know about my secret hidden obsession with New Kids on the Block, and once this is over we're all going to pretend that this never happened, but I still hold a very special place in my heart for Joey McIntrye, and I still get weak in the knees if I ever hear "Please Don’t Go Girl" or "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)." I truly believe that in another life, he and I were meant to be together. SHUT UP.)

My parents, I'm sure, thought it was just so much noise, but I'm sure that's what their parents thought about their music, back in the day. The only difference between their generation and mine, I'm pretty sure, was that my grandparents were probably pretty certain that John Lennon and Paul McCartney were not secretly transvestites, as I'm sure my parents wondered about Robert Smith. As did I, from time to time, let's be honest.

I can't remember what class I was in the first time I heard chatter at school about this new band that had just put out a record. It wasn't one of my musical friends, who were all going through a simultaneous fixation with Queen to the point where we listened to A Night at the Opera every day at lunch time for almost an entire school year. It was a VERY LONG TIME before I was able to listen to Queen again without immediately wanting to find Jon Conahan and punch him in the face.

No, this was somebody else, another student who was not my friend, just someone I knew, who would now mostly like be called an "early adopter." The CD got passed around among a cluster of boys who were all listening to the same stuff at the time – "arena rock," U2 and INXS and AC/DC. This was something new, a kind of music coming out of Seattle, and nobody was really sure whether they liked it or not. I remember catching a glimpse of the cover, kind of bright pink, which I thought was weird, and some muttering about lyrics: "I think this one song is about suicide."

My interest was piqued, that was for sure, but not necessarily in a good way at the time. Whatever the equivalent of "girl, please" was in 1991, I no doubt was thinking it: that one song is about suicide? You need to listen to some different music if you think one song about suicide is a big deal. Love is suicide. Life is suicide. Here, listen to this record and read some Sylvia Plath and then we'll talk. Pass the black eyeliner.

Six months later, maybe more, I finally heard songs from the record for myself. Yet again, I cannot remember where I was or who I was with. I seem to recall being in a car, and having just broken up with a boy, and probably I was sneaking a cigarette as I wept into my Mountain Dew. It was night, I know that much, and I think it was cold. What I do remember for certain is the sound of my entire worldview shifting without a clutch.

It sounded like righteous anger, and fear, and boredom, and loneliness. Like grunts, and groans, and testosterone, and overcast skies. Like torn jeans, and boots, and flannel. Like someone railing against the entire world, guttural growls against the messed up shit that was all around us, everywhere. Like loud guitars, and live drums, and masculine wailing. Like I had finally found someone who actually understood me, after an entire lifetime of listening to music about people who were themselves misunderstood.

It sounded like Pearl Jam's Ten, first released twenty years ago today, and still one of my top ten favorite albums of this lifetime.

Reply Hazy, Try Again

Sometimes I look at pictures of my daughter and I think -- or perhaps fear -- that I can see the future, or at least see visions of a version of a possible future.

I see traveling packs of skaters and boys with BMX bicycles riding up and down our street, doing live-action stupid human tricks, landing face-first in my rose bushes.

I see skinned knees and scabby elbows and numerous attempts to build a ramp in the backyard out of plywood and PVC piping and spray paint and glitter Hello Kitty stickers.

I see a raggedy 10-speed with a basket on the front filled with Pop Rocks and Coke and Cool Ranch Doritos and a cell phone filled with misspelled text messages.

I see the next ten years flashing before my eyes like a trick of the light, her childhood evaporating in front of me like baseball cards disintegrating in the spokes after a good hard rain.

Sweet cracker sandwich, I am not ready for this. Can't she just stay three-and-three-quarters forever?

Burying the Lede

Oh, hey, I already mentioned it in passing at least once, so I might as well go ahead and make it official: we're going to Disneyland. End of May, sometime around Memorial Day. We're also going to a wedding while we're there -- that's actually the official reason for the trip in the first place, although who are we kidding? Shae'll be four by then, and she has saved up seventeen whole dollars of allowance money, so there will be no stopping her at that point.

Honeymoon, Walt Disney World, April 1999.

Character Breakfast at the Crystal Palace.

This is the day that I had the world's best French toast.

Although let's be completely honest: we went to Walt Disney World on our honeymoon, so it's not like we're opposed to the idea or anything. Nobody needed to twist our arms to convince us. We're geeks and we're not ashamed. Weddings are fun, especially when you're going to be in the same general area where "The Hills" was filmed and so there is great potential for a Speidi sighting, but how can any old wedding compare to the Happiest Freaking Place On Earth?

(Well, okay, weddings typically have wine, and often brightly-colored fruity drinks, and sometimes there are cater waters who wander around with entire platters full of scallops wrapped in bacon and different kinds of meat on sticks. But still.)

I am totally That Tourist who bought all the official and unofficial guidebooks and who even ordered the free "let us show you how you can spend your entire life savings plus your kid's college fund in our theme parks" DVD from Disney. So over the next two and a half months, you're probably going to get sick of me discussing and debating and agonizing over this stuff. I apologize in advance for your inconvenience, but I am really, really stoked. It is possible that I am even more excited than my kid is, because I love California, and I have always wanted to go to Disneyland.

And if I find out that I can get wine and meat-on-a-stick there, I might not even come home.

All Points Bulletin

We interrupt our coverage of the last few pool-noodle-infused days of summer to bring you this urgent back-to-school-time bulletin.

Who is this mysterious young woman, and what has she done with my baby girl? Bring her back, or I'm selling her stuff.

Also: PUMPKINS? Already? I am not ready for the fall, not entirely -- although I have plans for this autumn that I better get working on. But still. I see pumpkins and I think of delicious, delicious pie and then I start feeling cold and old down to my bones and I just can't deal with it, okay?

Wonder Twin Powers Activate

On Thursday, the last night of our full-family vacation (both my sisters left the shore on Friday -- one so that should could visit other family members while she was "local" and still make it back to Chicago in time for work on Monday, and the other so she could find out she is going to have a girl, although I am personally holding out hope that it might possibly be a unicorn) -- on Thursday, we went to the boardwalk at Seaside Heights. When we were kids, we used to go to Seaside Heights for our summer vacation, and I had vague and hazy and soft and fuzzy memories of the boardwalk. I recalled it was awesome.

Um, yeah, not so much. Thanks, Snooki. *eyeroll*

But there are still lovely parts, if you ignore all the "As Seen On 'Jersey Shore'" signs and the "Welcome Back MTV" signs on the club marquees. It smells pretty darn good, that combination of salt water and sand and Coppertone hanging in the air, mixing with the aromas of all the different foods you can eat on the boardwalk -- pizza, cheesesteaks, fries, freshly-made salt water taffy, ice cream, lemonade. I love the sounds, too, the jangle of arcades and the rolling of skee-balls and the pit-pit-pit of those big wheel games and the crash of the waves and the laughter of the gulls and the screaming of children. And nothing anywhere in the world looks as inviting and exciting as the lights of amusement-park rides reflecting in the glimmering ocean. (Too bad I am a terrible photographer -- you will just need to take my word for it.)

For all that waxing nostalgic, at the time I was upset about our trip to the boardwalk, because it was not quite like I remembered. I used to think the boardwalk was so cool, because there was nothing like it near my house. It was five miles or so of complete sensory overload, and I loved it. It kind of squicked me out this time, and it never occurred to me until my brother-in-law said something, but it kind of does look like one giant church carnival. You know, if your church is "Our Lady of the Meat Market."

I was kind of devastated, and I blamed MTV: yet again, they have stolen and ravaged my youth! I didn't eat anything, because I felt like everything was dirty, somehow -- Snooki-fied. I made up for eating 700+ calories more than I was allowed on Wednesday by eating almost 900 calories LESS than my budget on Thursday. I didn't even have any ice cream.

And then I got home, and I looked at the pictures, and you know what? That trip to the boardwalk gave me exactly what I wanted all along.

These two, walking around all night in their "matching" outfits, holding hands, being together. Looking adorable. Just talking.

Teaching each other to fly.

And, you know, having ice cream, which has the calcium that is very important for growing superheroes.

So, all told, it was a pretty damn good vacation. Let's do it again.

Soon.

Bag Lady

I didn't get pictures of the new backpack in action yesterday, because I'm a slack-ass, so let's play a super-fun game on this cruddy Tuesday, OK? This game is called "Guess How Insane This Woman Is Based On The Contents Of Her Pocketbook." Ready? Go!

Many years ago B.C. (before child), back when I was in my 20's, I used to be able to get away with teeny little purses. I only needed something to hold my keys, debit card, driver's license, cash, cigarettes, lighter, and cell phone -- and in the winter I could get away with keeping my keys and my smokes in my coat pocket, so I needed to fit even less in my handbag. All I really needed was a wristlet.

As I got older and more like My Anonymous Mother, I started needing more stuff. I can't live without my iPhone any more (not shown because I was using it for the picture). Tylenol, always. Chap Stik or other lip balm. Usually I have tissues or napkins in my purse, but I must be out of them right now. For almost a year I couldn't go anywhere without Tic-Tacs, and I went through a three-year phase where I ate Certs like they were going out of style. (Is there rehab for Retsyn addicts?) I used to keep a travel spritzer of perfume, but it looks like I stopped doing that, although I can't remember when.

Now a good 50% of my bag space is taken up by non-essential junk, but I have a hard time editing down to what I really actually need and what I just might need. Like, do I really need to have half a dozen Boogie Wipes? Well, you never know. Do I really need three lighters? Yes, because people are thieves. Do I really need to carry that whole prescription bottle around for half a pill? Then what else will I do with it?

I kind of miss the days when I could carry everything I needed in basically my jacket pockets, but at the same time, it's kind of reassuring to think that I am no longer a person unto myself any more -- people depend on me and the secret weapons I keep hidden in my handbag.Plus, now I carry a big enough bag that I can sneak candy and salty snacks into the movies. Being old and wily has its advantages.

This post was inspired by the "What's In Your Bag?" project, which I learned about from Photojojo.

Ready For Takeoff

In preparation for our upcoming camping trip -- and by "preparation" I mean that we have reserved a campsite and purchased an industrial-strength outdoor Aerobed, because my ass is not sleeping in the dirt for seven nights -- we took Shae to the post office yesterday to get her picture taken and submit the paperwork for her passport.

Yes, I know how crazy it is to get a passport to go camping. But we will be in upstate New York, on the St. Lawrence River, literally within swimming distance of Canada, and Montréal is only about 2½ hours away by car. If the weather gets bad for too long (i.e., more than 36 hours of rain) or if I get sick of fishing or if we just want something to do that does not involve dirt, worms, mosquitoes, or fire-charred hot dogs, we might take a road trip.

(I've always wanted to go to Montréal. They have poutine there. That particular foodstuff fascinates me, in theory anyway. It seems like one of those things you absolutely must try in its place of origin before you die, like eating french fries slathered with mayonnaise in a pub in Amsterdam. Plus, I heard it's a beautiful city, if you can stand the Québécoise. And I understand they have an above-average hockey team -- or they did once, anyway.)

It seems weird to have to get a passport for a three-year-old, but of course it's such a different world now than it was when I was Shae's age. Not just in the post-9/11 sense, either, although of course that figures pretty prominently. Now, if we miss a turn off the 1000 Islands Bridge and end up in Ontario by mistake, who knows what might happen? I don't know the rules, the protocol, the necessary procedure for getting back into the country if you cross the border without the proper documents. The last time I went camping, it just wasn't an issue, you know?

But when I look at pictures from when I was a wee little one ...

... I know, without a doubt, that that person had not the foggiest of clues what a passport was, or what it was for. I didn't get a passport of my own until I was almost 18 years old, for when I went on a school trip to Greece. Until that time, passports were mysterious and glamorous. Only spies and diplomats and international businesspeople needed passports. Peace Corps volunteers and soldiers and ex-pats. Not nerdy little high school seniors who only wanted to go to Europe at all because that's what all her friends were doing. Nobody expected it to be a profoundly life-altering experience.

Of course, that was almost twenty years and practically twenty lifetimes ago. Shae not only knows what a passport is, she knows what it's for, and now she wants to know when we're getting on an airplane to go somewhere. She doesn't even care where we're going, she just wants to go. I didn't know wanderlust was contagious. I blame Dora.

At least we're prepared. If we ever find a smokin' hot deal on a trip to Paris, or Rio, or Madagascar, we're ready for takeoff, she and I.

Photo Collage Credits: Passport photos, visa stamp scans, and airline ticket from my personal collection. Map of St. Louis, Mo., from the Internet. Airline buttons and luggage tag from "Wish You Were Here" digital scrapbooking collaboration kit by various designers (some parts still available at Divine Digital).

Home on the Range

My sister and my nephew were in town for an all-too brief visit over the weekend. Last time I saw Joey in person, it was over Christmas break, and he looks almost like a different person now. Not a baby any more, but a toddler. A tiny little blonde-headed flyaway-haired Godzilla in Stride Rites.

And of course he is a perfectly normal-sized kid, but Shae looks like a total GIANT next to him. With all the delicacy and finesse of a drunken brontosaurus.

I feel like I haven't slept in a week. Chasing after two little kids, one of whom fancies herself a little ringleader, is difficult work. Especially without a cocktail or eleventeen.

Have to admit: I don't remember my kid ever being this little. I'm sure she was, at one point, but I don't remember it. How long ago was it? Two hundred years or something? Who gave her permission to outgrow the baby swing? Stop growing, you damn kids! And get off my lawn!

I am telling you -- that bench in my grandparents' backyard has been entertaining literally generations of my family. And several thousand geese, I think.

You can't see Joey's socks very well but they're Princeton socks, with little tiger paws all over them. They're adorable.

NOT ADORABLE, G. Not cool.

Visions of Sugarplums

I have to admit that I have never really been much of an artist -- not a draw-er, anyway. I love to color, but I am one of those unfortunates who can't make a straight line with a ruler. My palm trees are passable, but I'm not really all that great at Pictionary (especially because I always get nigh upon impossible things to draw, like "evade" -- like, really?). Charades? Hell yes. But you don't want me on your team for Cranium unless someone else can do the illustration bits.

However, my inability to create traditional visual art (i.e., paintings and stuff, not digital scrapbook pages, which are more graphic design than actual "art" most of the time, at least when I do it) does not mean I can't appreciate other people's work. I can (and do) lose myself in museums, especially ones with decent Impressionist collections. Drop me in a room with soft natural lighting and some Monets and Renoirs and books of Romantic and Imagist poetry and a big comfy armchair and some tea (Earl Grey, hot), and you might never see me again.

Of course, as much as I attempt to enjoy art, I don't always understand it. I'm fully willing to admit that why I love, say, "Bend in the Epte River near Giverny" so much, or "The Bathers," is because I can look at those works, tell what they are paintings of, and then let my imagination run wild, creating stories about these people and places, trying to think up words to describe that particular time of day or that particular shade of pinkish-green or that particular angle of light. I have a hard time with some modern art, because I just don't get what it's supposed to be.

As in the above exhibit. Shae drew this, obviously, and she's already better than I am, although ... what is this, exactly? A large fish? A fairy princess? A Christmas tree? A Rorschach test? I am not (entirely) making fun here either, or being snarky. I honestly want to know. I want to understand. She clearly had a grand old time making this picture, and I want to encourage her to keep doing this. I want to fill my refrigerator with her artwork, however cubist or deconstructionist it may be.

And I can't wait to introduce her to Jackson Pollock. Because that stuff all looks so angry to me, but doesn't it look like a hell of a lot of fun to make?

Little Saint Nick

I swear, I am not stealing post titles from my sister -- it just so happens that our family celebrates St. Nick's Day and there really aren't many other song names that will work here. Plus besides to which and anyway, "Little Saint Nick" is one of my favorite modern Christmas songs, especially when it is performed by The Muppets.

Come on, sing with me in your best Animal impression: "RUN RUN REINDEER!" Gotta love Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, which is seriously one of the best band names EVAR.

(Incidentally, I believe I was 30 years old before I realized that "Little Saint Nick" is a song about a sleigh, and not about Santa himself. That was quite a revelation, let me tell you. Not sure why, exactly, but I remember being shocked and mortified that I was getting it wrong for all that time, like, "How could I be so smart and still be so stupid?" Little did I know at the time what I would be in for once I became a parent. Oy vey.)

Anyway ... you will notice if you look closely that there are actually a pair of Shae's shoes in there. They're kind of hard to see because her feet are still so weensy (and we even set out a pair of shoes that are still a bit too big), even if they're not as small as they once were. Evidently, she was a good girl -- she got quite a lot of swag. Most of it was Hello-Kitty-themed, because of the $1 section at Target. I figure those stickers are just going to end up on the cats anyway, so there is no point in paying a lot of money for them, you know?

We also went to a Christmas party where My Anonymous Mother works -- it was cute, mostly just a chance to get your picture taken with Santa. Of course, Shae wanted none of that mess -- she said in the car, "I don't like Santa and I don't want to sit in his lap." I figured last year that once she worked out that {Santa = presents} she'd be okay, but it looks like I forgot to include the Creep Factor in the equation. I mean, she understands how Santa works, in theory, and she says she wants to ask Santa for a "cramera," but ... I don't know, maybe she just wants to yell her wish list at him from across the room or something?

(I love how in this picture she is all, "Oh, hey there, Mr. Weird Old Dude In A Fake Beard, you have some lint on your jacket, let me get that for you but DON'T LOOK AT ME NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" You can see the general discomfort and vague terror in her face.)

She was very happy with the small gift and the the goody bag she got. She's becoming quite the pro at ripping packages open, too, although, she is very strangely neat about it. Tear off one strip, give it to Mommy to throw in the trash, lather, rinse, repeat.

Christmas Wrapping

Incidentally: I was at Kohl's the other day, shopping for assorted nonsense and also this giant 2-pound bedazzled "S" Christmas ornament, and I heard a REALLY BAD COVER of The Waitresses' classic tune. And I swear to God, I right about had a heart attack in the store, because I could tell from the singing that the "artist" is a kid. I mean, like, an actual kid, not just someone younger than I am (although I am feeling so old these days that I am practically my own grandmother). Can't tell exactly who sang it -- once I realized about 5 bars in that this was not MY version of the song, I sort of stuck my fingers in my ears and starting singing "lalalalalalala" to myself to drown out the racket, and get off my lawn you damn kids! -- but as far as I can tell, it is someone called Miranda Cosgrove, from some Nickelodeon show that I have never heard of called "iCarly," and this person was literally not even born when the original version of the song came out.

Bah humbug, indeed!

Anyway, this is not about this kind of Christmas wrapping:

Although, hooray! I finally got some stuff wrapped! Of course, I have these ghetto-ass dollar-store gift tags? And they're like all waxy or something? So I can't write on them with just regular pen? But instead I need to use a Sharpie? And I can't find one? So nothing has a name tag on it yet? And I hope I don't accidentally give my father any of the gifts that I got for my nephew? Because that would be awkward? But anyway?

This is about this kind of wrapping:

Where your kid takes some reusable Target shopping bags and decides to wrap herself up in them to turn herself into a "wild thing" and why oh why did I spend all that money on presents when it's already evident that she's going to be more interested in the shiny things and wrapping paper? Sigh. She reminds me of someone or something, wish I could remember who ...

Oh yeah. The cats. Boogers.

And seriously: what the hell is an iCarly? Get off my lawn! And stay out!

Pennsylvania and Some Homemade Pizza Pie

Who knew that there are no Christmas songs that mention pizza? What kind of nonsense is that? There are songs about Grandma getting smooshed by livestock and Santa losing his ever-loving mind and Swiss Colony frickin' beef logs, but not Christmas pizza? Seriously, what is wrong with the world? Honestly, you'd think this was a religious holiday or some such balderdash.

Anyway ... we have like 3 pounds of assorted shredded cheeses in the refrigerator, because HEY YOU NEVER KNOW -- don't you judge me! -- and we're running out of room for essentials like hundred-year-old jars of cocktail onions and warehouse-club size vats of dill pickles, so we've decided to start, you know, using some of it. And since we can't really get a decent pizza in our little town, we decided to make our own.

I have a bread machine that I got for my birthday a few years ago, so technically we could have made our own dough, but we went the Boboli bread shell route because we figured (correctly) that it would be quicker and easier. Also, we wanted to give Shae a shot at "cooking," and even for a hyperactive toddler, it's pretty hard to screw up "painting" pizza sauce and sprinkling cheese on top of a ready-made circle of bread.

And it turned out to be a pretty darned good pizza, too. I mean, it's not gourmet wood-burning brick-oven pizza made from imported organic semolina and maiden-made fresh goat's-milk cheese or anything, but it was easily as good as frozen Ellio's, which everyone knows is the food of the gods. And Shae was pleased as punch that she got to "cook dinner," which was the point of the whole exercise, anyway. And then we watched "The Year Without A Santa Claus" and G and I wondered what the hell drugs the Rankin and Bass people were taking back in the '70s.

So, you know, typical day in our house.

A Very Merry Un-Birthday

Dear Shae,

Today is your half birthday -- you are two and a half today. And oh my ears and whiskers, how big you are getting! I can hardly believe my eyes: you are growing right in front of me.

I don't remember being two and a half, because it was a very long time ago, but I bet it was a whole lot of fun. I know it's a whole lot fun watching you being this age, and terribly exciting, too -- you're always running off somewhere, to pick a yellow flower or read a new book or put together another puzzle. It's exhausting for me, sometimes, because I can't always keep up with you, but I really enjoy trying to catch up.

I hope that today is twice as awesome as yesterday was, and that all your tomorrows are doubly so. I want every day to be awesome, because you are awesome. You are so very, very awesome. And I love you.

Onward and upward we grow, kiddo. Now blow out the candle, my dear, and make your wish come true. A very merry un-birthday to you!

Love, Mommy.

Hot for Teacher

(Oh God, this one of those stupid walls of text: sorry.)

Photo from Panoramio.

That's a picture of Cottingham Stadium, "Home of the Red Rovers." This was supposed to be a "WTF!? Friday" about high school football. But while I was looking for pictures of the stadium, and then my high school, and then people I went to high school with, somewhere along the way I took a very sharp left turn and ended up discovering through my awesome Google-fu (and also patience, as this information was buried several pages deep in the links) that one of my very favorite teachers from high school is now a visiting faculty member at Wilkes University.

This doesn't surprise me in the least -- when I think back on his class (which was actually 8th grade, not technically high school, and perhaps that makes this story better, in a way), I always remember how much smarter he always seemed than any of my other teachers. Although I could not have possibly known it at the time, having never seen the movie (because I was a good girl and also I don't think we had a VCR, and I know for sure that we didn't have HBO), this teacher was very much Donald-Sutherland-in-Animal-House, albeit without the drugs ... I think. He certainly never encouraged me to use any, for whatever that is worth.

One thing I remember is how he loved shaking up the "establishment" of Enriched kids. This teacher used to change his seating chart every 5 weeks, based on your placement in the class. Students with better grades ended up in the back of the room, and the ones who needed more help were in the front. I transferred into his class two weeks into the marking period, so I ended up in the front by default, which is where all these "gifted" kids who had known each other since elementary school thought I belonged. I was practically a foreigner to them, and they all thought I was beneath them (especially the girl who would eventually become the Salutatorian of our class, who quite frankly I never thought was anything less than a bitch, anyway -- funny how the uber-religious turn out like that, isn't it?).

Anyway. I was only in class for three weeks before the seating change. Other students in the class used to snigger at me when I had to diagram sentences on the chalkboard, because rather than just do what I was asked, I always had follow-up questions: what if there is a semi-colon? what if that "if" is changed to "when"? wouldn't it just make more sense to turn this mess into two separate sentences, instead of this compound-complex monstrosity with passive voice and verb tense problems? The other kids hated it -- secretly I think most of the time they had NO IDEA what I was talking about -- but I know my teacher loved it.

Which is why he made a Very Big Deal out of the fact that, when he did the first classroom re-org in October, I ended up in the far back corner, the seat reserved for "Patient Zero," as he called me. I stayed in that seat for the entire rest of the school year, which just about pissed everyone right off.

That was the point at which I decided that these people might have more money than me, and they might be prettier than me, and they might have more friends and fancier pedigrees and maybe they might even actually be better than me, but by God: I was fucking smarter than all these bitches.

So I suppose you can see why I haven't been to a high school reunion yet. Been out of high school for 17 years, and I am still bitter.

Oh, what did I learn in that class? Don't remember. We read Great Expectations and Jonathan Livingston Seagull and wrote papers on the meaning of life (mine was "live well, laugh often, love much"). Mostly I recall this teacher very fondly because he was the first adult who treated me, even at 13 years old, like a Person with Potential and not just some punk kid. He empowered me, demanded that I work harder and be smarter and think different, and even though I can't always put an exact finger on what he taught me, I still can tell you exactly what his greatest lesson was:

Girl? You are fucking awesome, and don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise, because you and I? We know the Truth.

And when I have those days when I want to quit my crappy cubicle job, when I get disgusted because my scratch-and-win early retirement plan isn't working, and when I think about what I want to do "when I grow up," when I am ready to have a job that my daughter and my husband can be proud of me for?

On those days, I want to be an 8th grade English teacher, just like Mr. Grier. Because he stepped in and saved me before it was too late, and I can't think of any better want to repay the favor than to be just like him.