Stickless No More

Someone took pity on my stick-less state and loaned me the use of their walking pole. Here I am practicing.

No posts over the next couple of weeks, but I promise to take good notes and update you when I get back.

À bientôt, mes amis!

Until the Fourth of Never

Sabrina wakes up in foul mood and proceeds to snap at everyone and everything, getting meaner by the second.

Me:  You need to go to your room and not come out until you can speak nicely to people.

S:   That'll be NEVER.

Door slams. And end scene.

These are my before and after pictures. Remember the one on the left?

As you can see, great progress has been made. We can actually see the floor, folks! I would like to think me posting a minor complaint for all the world to see is what shamed David into cleaning up this area, but I fear this is not the case. More likely it's the fact that he could no longer get to his desk to work. Whatever the reason, I'll take it.

Next up, our bedroom.

That box with the dirty bag in it? It's David's bike toolkit. That tent leaning against the wall. Also David's. He used both of them when he went on his Cycle Oregon trip LAST SEPTEMBER. For a while, everything from that trip was parked for a month in my living room until I started growing little bald spots on my head from ripping my hair out. Wanting to have at least one of us with a head of hair, David graciously picked up the items from the living room . . . and moved them to our bedroom where they have been residing ever since.

That brown grocery bag? Holds stuff David put together for a presentation on Japan at our kids' school LAST MAY. The pile of boxes? Stuff that's IMPORTANT, yet never looked at. (Look closely and you can see the dust.) The golf balls? That really mystifies me since we don't golf. The REI bag? A recent addition, but empty. Its contents are now spread across the floor as we prepare for our trip. Those paint supplies? Oh, wait, those are mine.

We are doomed, I tell you. Doomed.

A Confederate Hippie

Today was '70s day at school. It also happened to be Rose's field to Gibson Ranch for a Civil War reenactment. I hope there was somebody there taking pictures.

Stop Touching My Butt

S: Mom, Calvin and Rose were messing with my butt.

Me: Okay, dear.

S: Don't you care?

Me: Not really.

S: Calvin was making his toy dance on my butt, and Rose kicked me.

Me: And?

S: So, are you going to punish them?

Me: Why?

S: Because they TOUCHED MY BUTT!

Me: And I'm sure you had absolutely nothing to do with it.

S: Of course not!

Me: Uh-huh.

S: Moooom!

Me: [Silent stare]

S: I was only sitting on Calvin. I wasn't doing anything.

Later . . .

Me: Did you make your toy dance on Sabrina's butt?

C: She was getting up, and it was just too tempting. [Smirks]

Me: Getting up from where?

C: From on top of me.

There's Something in the Air

Every once in a while over the last few weeks when I've opened the pantry door, I've gotten a whiff of something nasty. For the life of me I haven't been able to figure out what it is. Everything in there is dried goods, like cereal or pasta, or canned goods. There were no suspicious puddles around the cans and jars, and while crackers can go stale, they don't generally smell like an animal has found its final resting place.

I was pretty sure it wasn't an animal of the vermin variety. I pay good money for pest control which is supposed to include those of the scrabbling variety. And other than a whiff now and then, I haven't seen or heard any other evidence -- no spoor, no scrabbling in the walls.

The problem with tracking down this elusive smell has been that I would catch the faintest trace, and then it would be gone. It has disturbed me enough, however, that I have made a habit of standing in front of the pantry for minutes on end, sniffing the air like a dog. Up high, down low. I've cleared entire shelves looking for something that has gone bad and come up empty.

I have even stood with my back to the pantry to make it think that I was actually focusing on something else and lull it into a false sense of security, then whip my head around and inhale deeply. But after that first smell, it would always disappear, and I would be left thinking I had imagined it. I have spent enough time sniffing the air in the pantry that my family has started to worry. "Don't you smell anything?" I ask. But everyone says no and then walks away casting anxious glances in my direction.

Tonight, though, I finally got more than a whiff. I opened the pantry door, and it was enough to knock me over. I was determined not to move on to another task until I tracked this smell down. I started my sniffing, up, down, up, down. This time the smell definitely started getting stronger as I moved down towards the lower shelves. Those hold cookbooks and paper plates, no food whatsoever. Nothing on the floor either. That's where I keep my oversize cook pots and paper towels. Oh, dear, if it wasn't food, that must mean something died down there.

My stomach started turning over, but I had already used up my one get-my-husband-to-take-care-of-it pass earlier in the evening when I requested that he kill an extremely large spider that was making a beeline for my bare feet. Also, he was hip deep in helping Sabrina and Rose with their public speaking contest, listening to the same speeches over and over and over. I had forced him into this after the science fair debacle, but I started thinking that maybe he was getting the better end of the deal this evening. Still, needs must, so I squared my shoulders, plugged my nose, and started moving stuff off the floor.

It's dark down there. I couldn't see much. Every piece I reached in to grab was a little like Russian roulette. I finally found it on the third item. There hanging off the backside of my crock pot was a small bag of potatoes. At least I think they were potatoes originally. I had no idea potatoes, when left to their own devices, would turn to liquid -- a black, evil-smelling liquid that started gushing over my hands as soon as I picked the bag up.

Running and gagging at the same time is not easy, but I managed it. I also managed to clean and mop the entire pantry floor while gagging, and to gag while taking out the garbage. I'm still having a little of that upchuck reflex now to be honest. It's enough to turn anyone off of potatoes for a good long while

Parenting: Pansies Need Not Apply

Oh, dear lord, my children are loud. The deck was stacked against them (or me) in this regard, but their daily general noise level seems excessive even taking into account their flawed genetic heritage. There isn't a retiring one in the bunch. They're always jockeying for position, talking over one another, all believing that the loudest wins.

Sabrina loves to argue. She reminds me of Joe Pesci's character in "My Cousin Vinny." If you say the day is sunny, she'll swear it's cloudy and raining. If you say the sky is blue, she'll interrupt and say the correct term is cerulean. Her arguing is an automatic reflex, and she'll jump in and start an argument even in a conversation she isn't a part of.

Rose is like the center of a hurricane. She loves to whip up the winds of dissention around her and then sit back calmly and watch the show. She also is a subscriber to the idea that revenge is a dish best served cold. I discovered this early on when, after days of being tormented by her older sister, I found Rose hiding her sister's beloved blanket and muttering to herself, "She'll never find it now!" and laughed evilly. Rose was two years old at the time.

Calvin likes to pretend he's the helpless little brother and manipulate his sisters into doing his chores. Or he likes to play the "wronged baby brother" role to the hilt, working the crocodile tears like he was going for an Oscar. In his spare time he works on perfecting his smirk.

And every single one of them loves to make loud, repetitive noises. They will experiment until they find one they like, and then repeat it at the top of their lungs until I go insane. This is their new favorite after-school game. You can guess how much I look forward to the end of the school day. My suspicion is that they have an ongoing bet between them to see who can get sent to their room the fastest after making mom scream in frustration. It's a game that is endlessly fascinating, combing their love of loud sounds with tormenting their mother. What makes a child want to do that? And am I alone in my affliction?

Generally speaking, parenting is a job where there is little to no feedback on your job performance. You will only know how you've done in about 18 years or so. There are times you wonder what in heaven's name you're unleashing on an unsuspecting world. And to be honest, there are many more of those moments in life than I would like. I have been told five "atta-girls" can be wiped out by only one "aw, shit." Since this nugget of wisdom came from the man who also told me that the tooth fairy is a reformed dentist by the name of Milton J. Snookers, that information is somewhat suspect. On the other hand, I have lived long enough to admit that there may be truth to that statement.

And goodness knows those atta-girls, those bright, shining moments of parenting are few and far between, sprinkled amongst a whole lot of those other ones. But once in while they appear, little moments when you stop and say, "Yup, doing something right here." Like the time recently when Sabrina heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes at me for the 7,483rd time. And since my limit for that reaction is apparently 7,482, I went from harassed to livid in 0.08 seconds. But instead of joining me in an attitude throwdown, Sabrina took a deep breath, and then another one, and said, "I'm sorry, Mom. That didn't come out right. I didn't mean to make you mad." Whoa. Way to take the wind out of my righteous sails there, girlfriend. And it humbled me more than a little to know that my 11-year-old could teach me a thing or two about being reasonable.

I'm telling you, parenting is not for the faint-hearted.

Europe 2010 Update

My sister-in-law Rebecca called me the other day. She said, "I read your post about your upcoming trip to France, and I just have to ask, did you book your trip through a British company?" I answered that yes, as a matter of fact, we did. "I thought so," she said. What a strange question. But it turns out that having lived in England for a few years now, all the cautions, warnings, and exhortations to have the proper equipment resonated with her experience of living with the British.

I've lived overseas, Japan to be exact, and dealt with culture shock. I went on tennis trips or skiing trips with Japanese friends and watched them go out and buy brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment and clothes for the outing. Never mind that they have never skied before, and probably never will again. It's a matter of appearance and pride. We went bowling, and everyone brought their own bowling shoes. Although, frankly, I can get on board with that one. I don't care how much disinfectant they spray in rented bowling shoes, the thought of all those feet sharing the same shoes kind of squicks me out. But tennis and skiing? Those are expensive sports, yet everyone would show up looking snazzy, while I arrived in my fraying t-shirt and taped up tennis racket. I expected cultural differences, however, when comparing the American lifestyle to an Asian one.

I didn't even consider that there might be some cultural differences that were embedded in our trip instructions. They were written in English weren't they, with an occasional extra colourful "u"? And not technical electronic instructions English, just plain, understandable English. I simply assumed if they said beware of snakes and bring your walking poles that we were in for some serious encounters with wildlife and steep slopes.

Rebecca encouraged me to rethink this assumption. Example number one: From time to time Rebecca likes to visit Scotland, a four-hour drive from where she lives. And yet whenever she makes plans to go, her friends ask her where she's staying along the way and are horrified when she says she plans to make the drive in one day. I know I married into a family who thinks nothing of taking a "weekend trip" to Yellowstone (16 hours one way), and David's uncle used to bring a pee bottle on long family car trips so he wouldn't have to stop every six hours for a restroom break, but even I have to shake my head at the assumption that a four-hour drive to Scotland requires an overnight stay halfway there. Heck, I know people that make the three-hour commute to San Francisco every day for work.

Example number two: Rebecca joined an outdoor club so she could do outdoorsy things. The club was planning on taking a kayak trip and told her she needed to take a four-week certification course so she could go. Having been an avid kayaker when she lived in L.A., she told them she didn't need to take the course. They weren't comfortable with that assertion and didn't want to give her the kayak because she didn't have the safety certification in hand. I believe some words along the lines of, "If I can kayak in the ocean, I can certainly kayak in this lazy river. Now hand over the damn kayak," were uttered. And once again, people were left shaking their heads at the irresponsibility of Americans.

Example number three: It is not uncommon for Rebecca to see people strolling around her town, walking poles in hand with nary a hill in sight. In fact, she was following such a person at the very moment she was talking to me on the phone.

This overly cautious, extremely safety-oriented approach is a far cry from the intrepid can-do spirit that infuses most Americans. Far from needing an overnight stay to break up a four-hour trip, pioneers were making the trek across our continent with nothing but a covered wagon and some oxen. If the going got tough, they jettisoned whatever wasn't needed, whether it was furniture or Aunt Mildred. They made do with what they had, and if food got scarce, oh, well, Uncle Donner was looking a little sickly, wasn't he?

So while I'm glad I've been walking often to get ready for this trip, I'm not quite as anxious as before. I'll bring the sunscreen, but leave the crampons and pitons. I'll bring the sturdy walking shoes, but leave the walking poles. And I'll seriously revise down the estimated walking time. I come from hardy immigrant stock. What's a little walk through the mountains?

Bait and Switch

Calvin:  Dad, how long before I can have a TV in my room?

David:  A long, long time.

Calvin:  Okay. How long before I can have a hovercraft?

Flying High

Whenever there's the slightest breeze, the kids start clamoring to go to the park. It is not uncommon in our house to hear, "Hey, I swear I just saw that tissue give the faintest of flutters. It's kite time!" Neither David nor I are thrilled with this development. We are not particularly fond of flying kites, although for vastly different reasons.

When I was a kid growing up in Oregon, my family would occasionally visit the coast. The grownups always seemed thrilled if our visit happened to coincide with the Yachats kite festival. Seeing all the many and varied kites up in the air together was indeed a wondrous site to behold, but it invariably inspired my parents to go to one of the many kite shops in town and buy us our very own kites. This led to standing on a windy beach eating either hair or sand, often both at the same time. When all is said and done, flying a kite is not much different than standing in a long, extremely slow-moving line, except you get to hold a string.

David on the other hand did not find flying a kite to be boring at all. He loved it. Until the time he and his friend decided to see how high they could actually fly their kite. Three hundred feet of spool was not enough for these kids, so they gathered ten of those bad boys and started splicing them together. They had fed out six spools, flying their kite on the side of a hill a couple hundred feet above the valley floor, feeling pretty pleased with themselves, when a small, single-engine airplane took off from the local airport a mile away. Their fascination turned quickly to anxiety and fear as the airplane flew closer. Suddenly the kite disappeared, leaving a trail of string a third of a mile long drifting gently down over houses, trees, and roads. The two guilty young sky-vandals fled the scene wondering if they had caused a headline-grabbing air disaster, in the aftermath of which forensic investigators would find remnants of a giant-size plastic bat kite and a few dozen yards of twine wrapped around a smoldering propeller amid a debris trail and swath of flaming residences, charred bodies, and havoc. I believe David has never touched a kite since.

And yet, despite our lackluster enthusiasm for this most innocent of pastimes, or perhaps because of it, our kids LOVE flying kites. You would think it would be easy to avoid this activity as you will never see David or me buy a kite. But our parents love to see us suffer as payback for all the pain we put them through when we were kids. They really want to enjoy watching us standing in a large field holding string for an hour at a turn, all the while yelling to our kids, "Come here, try this! It's fun! Really! No, I'm serious, get over here RIGHT NOW AND FLY THIS @#$!* KITE!" So our household never lacks for kites.

Yesterday when a leaf moved on a tree, the kids gathered their kites and stood staring wistfully out the window. We ignored them as long as possible, but eventually even my hard heart was not immune to the heavy sighs and the comments that went something along the lines of, "Looks like a great day for flying kites, huh?" or "I'd sure like to try this kite I just built with my bare hands." I drew the short stick, so off I went to the park.

It was better than I remembered from my own youth. For one, there was no sand. Unfortunately for the kids, there was also no wind. But that didn't stop them from enthusiastically running up and down the field. I wished I had brought our video camera for Calvin alone, his little legs pumping like mad, kite bumping and tumbling along the ground, and him screaming in ecstasy, "Look, Mom! Look at me fly my kite!!" as his kite caught a particularly big clump of grass and bounced up 18 inches in the air. Aircraft were not threatened. Sabrina spent a good portion of the time puzzled as to why her handmade kite -- heavy construction paper, yards of tape, branches for braces, and a three-pound tail of plastic beads dragging from four feet of string -- wouldn't fly. Rose just ran around in circles, giddy with glee, getting tangled in string and kite tail and loving every minute. It was hard to stay grumpy when I saw such joy on their faces. Maybe we'll have to plan a trip to Yachats soon.