It's a Brick House

Here is Justus near Wenceslaus Square in Praugue. He and Scout painted a brick that will be used to build a house for people here with special needs. We paid for the bricks, painted them, and they will be used to build a real house.
Scout was disappointed not to be able to bring the brick back with us to California. I was not disappointed.

Eleven!

Today is the anniversary of my life truly getting interesting.  Amazing and adventurous things are always happening to/for me, but the human experience of having a child, has been divine intervention.  I see folks post that their kid is having a birthday on Facebook, and quickly move to the next post.  Actually it is a very profound thing, celebrating the birth of a person.  I realize that when it is my baby.

Today something is changing beyond that.  It seems the more I am a mom, the less my kids' lives have to do with me.  I am reminded: that is the point of it!

Eleven!  Eleven is when we meet Harry Potter, and Anne Shirley of Green Gables.  Eleven seems to be the age where our adventure starts to have more to do with us, and less to do with who our mom and dad are.

It is my wish for my boy on his 11th birthday, that his adventure will be full of wonder, adventure, redemption, creation and magic!

Happy Birthday to my sweet boy!

Don't Stop!

I'll stop for you.

Today I stopped for a woman whose car was broken, the hood up, at an intersection.  I had to wait for several cars to go around her.  As I pulled behind her, I notice the tops of car seats in her back seat.  As I pulled around her car, I noticed her.  She was my age, standing in the shade, looking worried.

I stopped.  I asked her how I could help her.  It was an easy help, which involved moving her small boys into my car in the shade, and pushing her car out of the intersection.

I guess the surprising thing was how many people drove around her before I got to her.  I know there are times when people do stop for one anther, and also am surprised by how often I am the first to stop.  There was nothing ominous or sketchy about this woman on her way to drop off her boys at vacation Bible school.

I know doomsday is coming where thieves are hoarding the last tins of tuna in their broken down car.   The last ten men on earth lure you to their broken car (counting on the milk of human kindness during an atomic winter), and ultimately process your remains into tins labeling them "tuna".  We have all seen that movie.

I think that people pass by others in need for reasons besides fear, though mostly it is fear.  Another reason might be selfishness, and thinking he has nothing to offer.  As it turns out, the only reasons to pass by a person in need, are bad (except self preservation, I don't stop for the grungy man in a broken conversion van, or if I feel the situation is dangerous in any way).

Here is why I stop, and it is not because I am good.  I am just as fearful, selfish and insecure as anyone else.

I don't want to miss anything.  If you don't stop, you will miss something, something good, something adventurous, something life changing, which isn't to say that it might be hard.  Think of all the times you've stopped, and something unexpected happened.  For me, it is immeasurable, as this blog is a testament to.

Several years ago, I stopped when I saw a boy, maybe 5 years old, in the culvert on the side of a busy road. I am sure I was not the first person to see this small person alone in a dangerous spot.  I parked my car to guard him from traffic, turned on my flashers, and called 911.  I sat with him until the police and his mother came, and there was something different about the boy.  No one stopped, until the police were there.  The boy was very autistic, and wandered out of his house and around the corner several blocks.  His mom was CRAZY with worry and guilt for losing him for 40 minutes.  Either the drivers of the 50 cars that didn't stop before I got to him didn't see him (scary) or didn't think they could help (scary).  I felt like that day I actually helped someone, just like I felt this morning as I pushed a Jeep Wrangler to the side of the road.

If I had passed by, I would have missed it.  I am sure if you are the kind of person to read this, you are the kind of person who will stop.  How many times have I been on an adventure because I took the time to pay attention?  I can't know.

DIY Hula Hoop Tutorial

It is officially summer vacation and is officially beautiful outside.  It is my intention to stay outside as much as possible, and only inside to cook, sleep and other necessary tasks.
In celebration, we went to our local hardware store to get the items required for super-awesome hula hoops.  Here is how we did it, step-by-step.  It is so easy even kids can do it!!

Basic materials: 1 inch irrigation tubing 100-150 thickness, cut to a length so that the hoop hits you in the lower-ribs.
(I sweet-talked the nice guy working at the yard to cut them for us with his sharp knife.  Smile and bat your eyelashes)
1 inch couplings
Sand paper
not shown:soap, hot water, black duck tape (you know what those look like)

We sanded the tube so that it will be a bit sticky.

We then washed the lumber yard off the tubes.

After heating some water, we soaked the ends in warm water to make them more pliable.

These are the 1" couplings and dish soap.  I put some dish soap on each end, so that they were slick.

After the tubing is soft, and the coupling is slick, the whole mess slides together easily, making these:

This is our finished project.
One for mom, son, and daughter.  Maybe the kids will do this, instead of bickering.
Maybe I will do this instead of losing my mind with bickering.

Here are the happy kids.
 They had a competition to see who could do it the longest, then they tried some fancy moves.

It only took us about 30 minutes to make them, and $10.  I had purchased some flimsy ones for them for $5 each, but they seem useless compared to these.  Now, we can spend the rest of the summer by the pool, reading, gardening and hula hooping (it is too cold to swim in, for an adult, but it sure looks nice)

You Can Never Go Home

"You can never go home" is a paradox.  It is how I try to think about each day.  I try to live in this moment.  It is more true, if you move away from your hometown, as an adult.  I, however, deliberately moved back to my hometown after several years away.  I don't know what I was expecting, and for sure I wasn't stupidly thinking I was coming home to the same place I left.  I came back with kids, 10 years of marriage, and a university degree.

Now that I have been back for several years.  My hometown not only shaped me as a child, but is my home again.  I struggle with how sentimental I should be about my story, so far, and my stuff.  Sometimes I am very sentimental, and then I move and throw/give all my stuff away.  We are in a lean time for stuff, and a rich time for people.

At my church, my sister, mom and I set a table for a tea.  Tea is my thing, but tea settings aren't so much.  Rules and etiquette make me feel rebellious.  Groups of women make me feel shifty.

Like I said, I got rid of all my stuff (or never had any), so I don't have tea settings, which is fine with me.  We set the table with my grandparents tea service from the 50's.  I cut flowers from the yard to decorate, and I didn't compare how homespun our table was to the fancy tables nearby.

As my sister and I were sitting at a table full of contented ladies, I unexpectedly felt very sentimental.  All these people were enjoying one another partly because of my grandmother's stuff.  We could have been eating from plates made in india, sold at Ikea for $2, but we weren't.  It was an unusual, and mysterious feeling for me.  It felt like home.

The Kids Shall be First, & the Moms Shall be Last.

An omelet with hollandaise and provolone, strawberries with whip cream,  fancy bacon, and a delectable cup of steaming hot coffee in my favorite mug.  The final treat was a fried potato, the kind you can find at your local fast food restaurant, but better because we are eating at home.  My heart and soul longs for this wedge of treat-y potato goodness.  This was the breakfast which was laid out in front of me for Mother's Day.  

Silas had been working with the kids in the kitchen to perfect the feast.  They were a bit like spaced-out cats or chickens, so it was my pleasure to find something to do outside of the kitchen to wait for breakfast.  I could hear my son turning the whip cream to butter as he stared out the window.   

I was served first, so I was taking my time eating, so that we could all eat together, and so that I could eat that potato last.  The kids sat down, then soon Silas.  I opened the card from the kids.  Someone got milk to cool the coffee the kids like.  I had worked my way through the strawberries, and two bites of bacon and omelet, still pushing the pleasure of the potato off just a bit. 

Just then, the full jug of milk my son was yielding, tipped my full mug of coffee into my plate, saturating the majority of my breakfast, including the perfect potato, with coffee.  What couldn't fit into the plate, splashed onto the table full of Mother's Day cards.  Wet bacon, floating omelet, and spongy, soggy potato.  The coffee is soaked up in an old beach towel, and the food is in the compost.  

I'll be honest, my heart sunk, I really wanted to eat that potato.  I'm writing this in past-tense, but it really only happened 30 minutes ago.  It is the kind of thing some say, after you let the disappointment go, "We can laugh about later."  For me, I could laugh about as it was happening.  It typifies the experience of mothering for me.  

If you feel you can control what you are going to eat, when and how much you sleep, how clean your floor is, or going to the bathroom by yourself, then being a mom is the best learning experience for you.  This Mother's Day reminded me that loving my kids is a sacrifice of which I am perfectly willing to participate.  

As the coffee spoiled my breakfast, sure, I was disappointed, but I laughed right away.  I laughed because it was comical and I laughed with joy.  

Coffee soaked card and beach towel.

 

                               

Longing

Every year at Easter I find myself having the same feeling. It's a feeling besides the tickle in the back of my throat, itchy skin and sneezing nose.  It's such a strong feeling, almost as physical as those allergic reactions to procreating plants.  It is a physical longing, yes, but as we are more than just a body, my physical wants can also be spiritual.
I am longing to walk barefoot on my wood floor with warm feet.  I'm longing to look down at my arms, without seeing the stretched and frayed cuffs, of my over-warn sweater.  I want to wait for hot water in the shower, and to dry off, without a short episode of hypothermia.
This year Easter is later in the year than usual, and yet I still find myself with the same sense of longing for the next thing.  It made me wonder if there is a connection.  It seems that I'm not the only one stricken with longing at Easter, or this season of the year.  People through the ages have been wanting for the bounty and rebirth of Spring and Summer.  They are wanting for their physical comfort, and the unseen part of themselves.  Could you imagine Easter in November?  No.

Today, the unseen part of me is basking in the moment, and looking forward to blueberries, flip-flops, mosquito bites, late evening barbecues, zinnias, swimsuits and tomatoes.

What do April Snow Showers Bring?

It was snowing while I was running on the treadmill on Friday.  I watched the snow fall into the trees while I booked with my iPod tunes in my ears, in relative indoor comfort.  Here is what was running through my head:

If it weren't for modern technology, I couldn't run during a snow storm.  Also, if it weren't for modern technology I wouldn't need to run during a snow storm.

If I lived 100 years ago, I'd be hauling and chopping wood, milking goats, walking miles to the grocery and eating potatoes from the cellar from last fall.  I wouldn't have time to get antsy from all the cold, dark weather of the last six months.  I wouldn't have the free-time, or the need to run.  What an interesting and exciting time to be.

Moms of Hazzard

I am driving a car I made money on (kinda).  Usually cars are not investments, they are like boats, or RVs, they cost more money than they are worth in the end (which is why I don't like to get an interest-bearing loan for them).  Here is how it worked:

I used to drive a 1993 Honda Civic which my grandpa bought for me ($0 for me), then I had a kid, and we didn't fit in that two door car.  We bought another two door car, whose seats folded into the dash so I could nearly stand in the back seat to put the babies in car seats. That car, which was a 1998 WV New Beetle, went to car heaven in 2009.

The insurance company gave us more than we paid in 2003 for the car, and we bought the next car, a 1996 Passat, for less than the insurance gave us.  Leaving us $1000 in the black! ( I get it, with gas, repairs and maintenance, we didn't really make money)

Photo courtesy of my then 5 year old with a point and shoot camera!

I have now been driving a "free" car, which is old-ish, for 1 1/2 years.  It gets great gas mileage, it is a turbo diesel, it can go fast, it is comfortable, it is cute, and it is green.  Sometimes I think I will need a new car, but then I remember, the newness will wear off, and I like my car.  There is one problem.  The doors do not work, meaning, some or most do not open or shut.  I am wondering how many doors need to be broken shut, or open, before the car is useless.

As I was letting the irony of a working car with no working doors wash over me, I remembered another cool car that has no working doors.  As long as my windows work, I don't need a new car!!



I can imagine my children jumping through the open window from the pick-up line at  their elementary school.  I'll be the coolest mom ever?

PS pretty cool old guy that can still do that!!

Phone of Man's Desiring

I'm gunna buy this phone just for the ad, just like the VW Passat TDI.

Lucky Cat

My friend asked me a question about my cat yesterday, that made me think about him a bit more than usual. The thought is quite basal, my cat is alive. He is quite fortunate to be alive. He once traveled 3 miles through the woods from my in-law's house while we were in Europe for 2 weeks. We arrived home thinking he was lost, but he was just starving at home, with no one to feed him. You can read about that super awesome story here.  He was shredded by some dogs, and we super-glued him back together (really, it worked! no vet bills).

X-ray, one of the biggest cats ever.

I got this cat because I hate mice, more than I dislike cats. I don't really like cats, but I HATE mice and rats. I keep a clean house, but was pestered by rodents until 2006 when we got a cat. The mice are gone, and we don't have to put poison or traps out to steer clear of Hantavirus.

The question was, "It seems you just feed your cat, so it doesn't die?"

Which made me check myself.  It didn't take me long to answer yes.  Sadly, yes.  My cat is rather soul-less.  He's a slave to his belly and his own satisfaction (typical cat).  I don't hate him, but didn't even think that I'm solely maintaining a live creature so that he wont die.  I am.  I feed him what he doesn't get from the rodents.  He whines all day so that I might feed him more, he relieves himself in the warm, dry garage, he poops in the flower beds,  and he slithers into our house and into the inner-workings of our couch to hide.

I should move away from maintaining our 'pet', and enjoy him.  I should accept him for his 'cat-ness'.  His characteristics are attributes that turn me off in others, and I HATE in myself: selfishness, gluttony, laziness, dirtiness, hairy-ness, sneakiness, dependence.... It's no wonder I don't like our cat, because I see in him the things I don't like about myself, and I'm allergic to it.

Hear This....

I am in the midst of parenting bliss, and I know it!!  Both my kids are as creative, enjoyable, thoughtful and helpful as they have ever been.  I have left the sleepless nights, running at the park to catch a falling toddler, and endlessly cleaning the floor of finger-foods behind me.  I soon will venture into pre-teen and teen drama, mood swings, an empty fridge and worry about my kids driving.  For now, I am reveling in all the interesting things my children have to say.  They are wealths of knowledge about grade-school topics.

Our son is usually a walking encyclopedia (remember those?) but lately our seven year old has joined in.  We now have Boyipedia and Girlepedia (I'm sure it is parenting justice for years of babbling at our folks, we both are that way).

Our girl has a way of getting our attention when something is particularly interesting.

"Hear this Dada!...
     did you know the sun has spots
     did you know that Earth is the 3rd planet from the sun, and mars is 4th
     the sun is 15 billion degrees
     the sun is the biggest star,
Boys: No it isn't
Girlt: I mean in the solar system
Dada, hear this....."

I imagine each bit of trivia like a newsboy selling newspapers (remember those?) on the corner.  To her, it is that exciting.

Let's Put On Our Thinking Caps!

Federal funding for National Public Radio was cut last week.  Our federal government is sustaining itself on temporary budgets because we spend more than we make.  On the whole, I've been unimpressed with federal programs.  They don't seem to impact me (besides the free medical care while a dependent of the military, free university tuition, and housing allowance.  Thank you America!).  It seems to me the federal government is in the business of impacting BIG things, and I am a small thing.  A small thing I partake of is NPR.  I know it has a liberal bias, but so do I, so I listen.

When I heard that the funding had been cut, I assumed that it was because our government is financially stretched beyond our means.  I am still assuming while writing this post.  I have only ever made a budget for my small family, and can only relate the scenario to my personal finances (which I can judge the government, because they are in order).

If we were living extravagantly on our credit cards because we were spending more than we earn, it would be moronic to cut toilet paper out of the monthly expenditures.  Would we expect that to impact our finance enough to help?  Would we expect that our kids wouldn't get angry, after using toilet paper their whole lives?  My eight cars are too expensive, my house is too expensive, my insurance is too expensive, my trip to Antarctica was too expensive, my Whole Foods groceries are too expensive.......

People don't really NEED toilet paper, but isn't it super nice?  It is a modern luxury, just like NPR.  We might even think, 'how did we ever live without this white, soft paper product?'

I'm hoping that there is a silver lining.  It is my observation that when funding gets cut, and it is something people care about, people get creative.  Loads of money oftentimes make us turn down our creativity.  I'm hoping, that institutions are like people, or actually made of people.

*all the facts in this post I learned from NPR, National Public Radio, are assumptions, exclusively my opinion, or I made them up.

Something Old, Something New

I guess I'm in a sentimental mood, or maybe I am just sentimental. I think it's the latter. I'm sentimental about stuff, people, places, music and photos. I fit in lately, as things like, retro, vintage, up-cycling, and going green are popular. I don't think it has always been so trendy (example: the 80's). I'm not one for trends: capris, Ikea, Justin Beiber, and Farmville. I think they are silly and leave little scope for imagination!

Even when this photo was taken of me,
the tiny ring was hiding in the attic, in an old toiletry case.

When my grandparents passed away, when I was in my early 20's, I got their wood furniture from the 1950's. Maybe it was trendy back when my dad was a boy, but now it is old. Good, and old. I also received a small, and long forgotten, antique ring of my great-grandmother's. It is now more than 100 years old. It had a tiny diamond, and a thin band, for a person who's genes did not pass on to me. It also had an antique setting, and whimsical engraving on the outside.

For the last 15 years (before that, maybe 30 years) it has been sitting in a box, taking up beautiful, dark space. I would see it now and then, like when we moved. It only fit on my pinky, and made the small-ish finger look like a sausage. Another drawback was that if I wore it, it would break. Besides its beauty, it was useless, and unseen. It's daintiness, and beauty was almost a complete waste on me.

Before Christmas, my husband took me into my friends jewelry store. He asked if they could take the modest diamond out of the setting from my engagement ring and put it into the little antique ring. They also made the ring bigger and stronger, to suit the farm-hands I inherited from my mother. When they returned the ring I felt all the sentiment and tenderness I could feel, for a thing.

I felt the presence of a woman I never met. She was the mother of one of the best people I've known. The diamond was from my sweet young husband, years ago. I put the new/old ring on my hand, a hand that has been changed with the generations, and felt all that love.

I know that jewelry is a thing, and I strive not to be taken by shiny things, and yet it conveys what is in my heart.

Today when I read the blog my friend keeps for her jewelry store, the very same shop which artfully made my grandmother's ring mine, I realized sentimental is trendy. All this time I've been thinking trendy wasn't my taste. It turns out the whole point of jewelry is sentiment.

Girl Books, Boy Books

Growing up my parents read to us every night before bed.  We also watched old episodes of The Andy Griffith Show and The Rifleman, so I did get to watch television also.  We are carrying on the tradition of reading to our children, which our parents faithfully passed to us.

I have to admit that I am a bit dissatisfied by the latest choices of books, and I think it is because of my 'Y' chromosome.  We read a Terry Pratchett book which was about a police department, in a world on a disk with fantastic creatures.  Then, a book about an ancient Egyptian war, set in modern times.  Both were full of intense battles and boyish humor.  If you only read an hour a night, aloud, a medium-sized book can take up to a month to finish.  Some of my dissatisfaction is that each book is taking so long to read, although they are not bad books.

At the breakfast table last week I started to plead my case for Anne of Green Gables.  Two of the people in our family are female, which I think the book was written for, and the other half could give a little.  They could consider that a story without a battle or an ogre might be meaningful.

Silas conceded, he wouldn't mind reading a book about me.  ME?!?!  I started into what was sure to be a fiery lecture about," how.... Anne and I....well,  he must know those books are fiction, from the author's imagination, and...anyway, well.....I really think the kids....and you know, well.....Shut-up, Gilbert!!!"

Today, I found a copy of Anne of Green Gables on Gilbert's Silas' desk.

Silas & Tyson
1993?

Update: good husband/bad man

Tomorrow Silas has a colonoscopy.  He has to return to the office where he had an endoscopy.  I guess they don't have a camera that goes all the way through, he dopily asked after the first procedure (they do have a fancy camera pill).
I'm curious about what will happen this time, as he visits the same nurses, and is sedated again.  I'm sure silliness will ensue.  I hope it is blog fodder, and that whatever the heck is wrong with him will come to light, so he can feel better.  I mostly hope for the latter.

good husband/bad man Part III

I'm waffling on the title of this post.  It could be 'good man/ bad husband', but I think I'll keep it the way it is, and let you decide.  Also, be warned there is some bodily fluid in this post, so stop now if you are anything like me!

The concept of sympathy is near to me, but I think who ever coined the term didn't understand the concept in regards to vomit.  If you are a 'sympathetic puker' then you know it is mis-named.  I feel no sympathy.  I feel things like revolution, gagging, aggravation, and stomach cramps.  I do not feel sympathy.  This is an especially challenging feeling in regards to parenting.  I had NO IDEA that parenting would require such a strong constitution.

It seems that at unpredictable intervals, one or both of my children are sick from one end or another, usually on a trip or in the middle of the night.  It was a stretch getting through the diaper phase of parenting, but the messiness sporadically continues.  I can walk 20 miles in a day with a huge pack, I can stay up all night, I can fast for a day, I can climb the highest peak in California, I can run for an hour, but I can not clean up after my children when they are sick.  This is where that good husband of mine comes into the story.

We are parenting together.  Only months after becoming parents, we discovered that I only add to the problem/mess, when trying to clean up a mess.  My part of the team, is staying out of the way, or rinsing off a kid in the shower (even that is questionable).  Near the beginning of our life as parents, in a moment of feeling bad that I was unhelpful, or even more destructive, I told Silas I would clean the bathrooms in exchange for his super human ability not to vomit while mopping.  I feel that this is a reasonable trade, even though I intend to be an octogenarian.

Fast forward ten years, at 2am, after both our children had emptied the contents of their stomachs onto the beds, carpet, and hallway.  Silas is quickly taking care of business as I try to help with the relief efforts, though I know I'm not supposed to.   I then find myself hunched over, trying to control myself and Silas angrily yelling at me from down the hall, "get away from here, you are just making it worse!!".

Silas is not a yeller, and is very very slow to anger.  I think the stress of cleaning up and managing two sick kids is frustrating, at best.  It was so uncharacteristic of him, I was momentarily stunned.  What was I supposed to do, just go back to the warm bed and leave him alone?  That's what I did.  I did, however, have clean towels and sheets ready, clean clothes to change the kids into, and things manageable enough before hand, that he was close behind me going back to bed.   I understand that he would raise his voice to be perfectly clear, that I need to stick to my end of the arrangement.
Yelling = bad man

Silas, just before a night of cleaning a sleeper car in Egypt.

mopping up puke= good husband

Freebie List

Long before Friends, Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel, Joey and Phoebe, had a celebrity "freebie list", my grandparents had one.   A freebie list is a set of people who you are allowed to cheat on your spouse with, should they come to the door of your house for you.  The other spouse would have to stay behind, knowing it was a "once in a lifetime opportunity" for the other.  Yes, my Methodist grandparents.  Both have been gone for a long while now, as well as the celebrities.  On the long running sitcom Friends, the list was 5 celebrities, but for my grandparents, they only got one:  Rita Hayworth for my grandpa and Gregory Peck for my grandma.

This is how I imagine the scenario playing out.  My grandparents would be sitting by a fan in the house, on a hot Central Californian day, playing bridge, or rather a 2 person card game, and drinking water, while my dad and uncle were out in the street riding bikes.  A black car would pull into the drive, and either Rita or Greg would ring the bell.  My grandma would make a cute surprise noise, and my grandpa would get the door.  Depending on the whoever it was, the grandparent in question would quietly go to the bedroom and fill a suitcase, and without a word, leave in the black car for Hollywood.  As if a switch had gone off in his or her head, like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers (it is the 50's in my imagination, so I'm sticking to the theme).

There are a lot of holes in this plan beyond the morality of it.  I'm positive my grandparents told their children this quirky plan, to reassure them that they never would leave one another (as well as just kidding around, they were funny folks). They said it to confirm their love for one another until death parted them.  What are the chances of the most famous movie actors of the day coming to the front door?  Imagine George Clooney coming to your house, right?  What are the chances?

Inadvertently, the legacy that my grandparents left us was probably different than their intention.  For my father, it left him with worry as a child:  what if those famous people just do happen by our house in Merced California?  It is something a kid could worry about.  For me it left me with a huge crush on Gregory Peck!

good husband/bad man Part II

Last week Silas had an endoscopy.  The doctor and nurses sedated him to see why his stomach has been giving him trouble.  I was his ride home, so after the procedure I found him in the recovery room.  He was behind a curtain with a young nurse (younger than me) on a cot, laying on his side.  The pretty nurse told me he was very sleepy, and very chatty, then she smiled at me, sweetly sideways.  This is the part of the story where my concern for his condition turned to curiosity.

The nurse told me every time they tried to wake him, he would groggily look at them and say, "You're not pretty enough to be my wife!".  He would fall back into his dopey sleep, and they would try to wake him again, and he would say the same thing.  Had he thought that it was going to be me waking him up each time?  The nurses giggled, and were not offended.

I shook him awake, and he looked at me and smiled.  He was dopey!  He was telling the nurse how he might invent a program for her computer to make it work better, just before she stepped out of the curtain.  I told him what he had said to the nurses, and he was embarrassed a bit, so he said loudly, through the curtain, "you are pretty enough to be my wife".  I could hear her giggling behind the curtain.

I learned two things about what my husband is actually thinking, without his filter.  The first is that he is a pretty big nerd.  He holds back a lot of technical details and geeky computer inventions (my 5th grade son also has this trait).  I'm grateful for his nerd-i-ness, as it puts food on the table, and he is well rounded and social.  I'm also grateful I'm not responsible for all those details in his head.

The second thing I learned, was really just a reminder.  Silas thinks I am the most beautiful person he knows.  Compared to the other women in the doctor's office, if I were comparing objectively, which is a terrible thing to do,  there was no winner.  I might be the winner, in that I was not in hospital scrubs, but my 'mom uniform', which might be a 6 out of 10 rather than a 5.

How Silas views Tyson

What I actually look like.

Every girl wants her husband to think she is the prettiest girl in the room, and mine does.  The flip side, which is the 'bad man' part, is it could mean that he thinks you aren't as pretty as I am.  I don't think the two are mutually exclusive.   I think the real danger is if I thought I was prettier than you, and I don't.  I don't even care what you look like, I like you anyway.  I think Silas doesn't actually care what I look like either, because I can be an ugly person, he loves me despite myself.  Our time together has helped him love me: body, mind and spirit, and I reciprocate.

Teacher Credentialing, Huh?

i recieves this here letter froms the State of california credenttialling dept. Todays. I sended the monies in just like they said, $51 for the prosess of. 

I realize that I'm not the authority on spelling or grammar, but c'mon!!  I'm worn a bit thin, as they would say to send in $51 in black and white, then the next day send me such a poorly written email.  I wonder what state the author of this letter went to school in?

The letter asks me what I think, and I think if you are writing to teachers and prospective teachers, write more gooder.
also....

 $55-$51=$4

Maybe I'm thinking too much.

date Thu, Feb 17, 2011 at 11:19 AM subject Re: Credential application

11:19 AM (17 minutes ago)

Hi Tyson,

The Commission receives your application packet and a check $51.00 again.    It is insufficient fee. The current application fee is $55.00.  You may send me an additional amount $5.00 to my attention as I am holding your stuffs.  Let me know what you think.

J T

Cashiering Unit

Certification, Assignment and Waiver Division

Commission on Teacher Credentialing

good husband/bad man

I've named this blog for my husband, and have quite a bit to say on the subject of his goodness and badness. I've so much to say it may be the start of a series, or chapters.  First, some disclaimers:  I have been married to this bad good husband since 1995, and despite himself, I'm in love with him, no matter what.  I'm in love with him more now than ever and have been married to him all of my adult life, and a bit of my childhood (who's an adult at 19?).  I won't be bashing him. 

On with the story......

 

 Last summer we traveled to the Czech Republic with friends.  While touring Prague, Silas, the spouse in the spotlight, bought me a yellow rose at a market while we waited for everyone to buy souvenirs.  From the market, we took public transportation to the Little Eiffel Tower to look out over the entire city.  Walking through a garden to the tower, I dropped my rose.  We noticed just in time to see a school aged girl find the rose on the ground, and pick it up with obvious delight.

I noticed the girl's face the same moment as Silas was bounding like Tigger back down the path towards her.  I saw him squat down and talk to the girl for a moment, then she gave him the rose.  As he ran like a school boy back towards the group, my friend leaned in and said, "Silas, he is a good husband, but a bad man".  This is exactly what I was feeling as well.  What a sweet guy to go get the rose, what a jerk for taking a rose from a little girl.  The passing comment of a friend, summed up Silas, I just never thought of it so clearly.  Silas loves me, despite all others.  This is a very attractive attribute from my perspective, and only sometimes mildly embarrassing, and usually not.

After some awkward moments walking, I told him  I would rather it would be alright to let the girl keep the rose, and I'll keep the memory of his kindness: getting me a rose, giving it to a pretty little girl.  As we entered the tower he did give the rose back to the girl.  I'm sure she will always remember a stranger giving her a rose (her mom was there too).  The girl was all smiles as we headed up the stairs of the tower.

Small Library

Any free moment that our boy has you can find him reading. He has out-read his dad and me in the 6 years he has been riffing quickly through the pages of the Youth Fiction section at the library. Some moms take extra time to make sure their son reads enough, I sometimes offer a computer game or cartoon up to our boy.

This month I realized that most of the books that are appropriate for him (and some not), he has read. The only series I could find that he has not read was Anne of Green Gables, which I don't know if I can get him to read (though he will love it once he starts, the feisty heroin might remind him of his momma!).

He is 10, and on the precipice of being able to read more edgy things, and by edgy I mean Jack London. I was a bad mom and let him read "Call of the Wild" when he was eight, or so, and it ended in tears and sadness for his young, sweet, heart.

On that note, last week he decided to do a biography on his current hero, Brian Jacques, for school. He wrote the Redwall series, which pits good against evil in the form of rodents. It is perfect for my kid. He learned that Jacques had visited our local book store, and was daydreaming about getting to meet him (he is a kid and didn't realize that Jacques is from England, thousands of miles away). He went on and on about it, just last week.

Monday I had to tell him the sad news, that over the weekend, Brian Jacques died suddenly. I told him, and he cried, and hugged his dad. We talked about how lucky we were to have been able to know a part of Jacques, through his writing.

My boy is on the cusp of the world opening up to him. He will learn about the vastness of our world, and the suffering in it, because he is a reader. I am loving my boy for his innocence while he still has it, and am excited for all the conversations I can have with him, about great ideas, far away places, history, science, and religion as he grows. Now that nearly all the books in the Junior section have been read, soon he can climb the stairs and start in on the Science Fiction, Mysteries, Biographies and Novels.

I Want My Gym TV

Beware:  The next few paragraphs contain some grumbling.  Be warned.

I joined the gym this winter to exercise despite wind, rain, snow, cold, sleet or otherwise.  At my gym, and any other gym anywhere, there are televisions bolted to the ceiling and turned on.  I would guess there are about seven or more where I go.  There is some magic to getting the individual sound from each one to your ears, but I haven't figured that out yet.

I have not had television for almost 8 years. I don't watch sports, talk shows, reality TV, commercials, documentaries, promos, or news.  I do watch 30 Rock and Battlestar Galactica, streaming on my computer.  Television is not something that will keep my attention for the 4th or 5th mile on the treadmill (music will).  I do, however watch/observe it.  Here are my observations about television:

• There are cloning devices or CGI used on 24 hour news networks.  Men, mostly, all look the same: 45-65 years old, white, greying hair, square black glasses, 15+ pounds overweight, blazer, and rosy cheeks(they look worked-up about something important).  This is particularly spooky when at church, you see several men in the same uniform.  This maybe because there are only dark, square glasses available from the optometrist, and if you are that age, you need specs.
• There are only four or five 'newsworthy' stories everyday, run by all the news channels, concurrently.
• If you are trying to watch a match of the Australian Open while running and zoning out to music, the television to the right and left are probably playing a recap of that same match.  You can not watch the match usually because you don't have a television, and Australia is already well into tomorrow, so you can't watch it live, giving away the ending of the match you are watching blow-by-blow, simultaneously.
• There is always an older man, who will change the seventh and final television to a 24 hour cable news channel, so that all of them are cable news.

I'll admit that my avoidance of mass media is purposeful.  At the gym, I am like a child watching TV for the first time, I can not look away.  I can't hear what the TV is saying, and I believe my ignorance about television may skew my observations.

29 Hours to Minnesota

Last week I drove from Northern California to St. Paul, Minnesota with a friend who is moving.  I now am somewhat of an aficionado of Minnesota in January compared to most of the people in my neighborhood.  After nearly 48 hours in the state, and the coldest weather they have had in several years, I feel accomplished.

When I left my house, it was 60 degrees, and forgot my husband's coat in the closet.  Why would I think of grabbing it on the way out?  I'm not much of a detail person, and also not much of a coat person.  Coats make me feel like someone is choking me, which is why I suffer while skiing.

Fortunately, while traveling along I-80, there are several (~27) discount shops for outdoor supplies.  Also, all winter clothes are on sale.  If you do not yet have a coat in Wyoming, Utah, Nebraska, Iowa or Minnesota this year, you are probably a popsicle, and someone will find you during the spring thaw.

In the end, we drove for three days and made it to the 'Land of a Thousand Lakes', where the state drink is milk, and the state muffin is blueberry.  Here is my trip log in bad cell phone photos:

It starts to snow in, Evanston, WY for 20 minutes! No coat.

It is sunny and COLD in Nebraska.  Still no coat.

I purchase a coat in Cheyenne, deeply discounted, of course.

Minnesota is essentially tundra.  -22 without windchill.

Inga scrapes ice from the INSIDE of the windows.  

I am happy to live where there are 4 seasons which are moderately moderate!  I'm also happy to be home!

Facebook Vacillation

I vacillate between hot and cold on Facebook.  Sometimes I love it, sometimes I hate it, sometimes I am addicted to it, and sometimes I'm ambivalent.

Here are some of the reasons I'm cold:

Photos of food.  There are some great sites out there to look at photos of food, really yummy looking food. I am sure that your food is yummy, but it looks kinda bad unless you are a bang-up photographer.

357 photos of your trip to the beach.  You are only in 2, and those are fuzzy.  I love photos and photos of people doing fun things, but I can't really look at the virtual 7 rolls of bad photos you took.

Being someone who you are not, on FB.

Being who you are on FB.  Be a better person than you really are, on FB.  I don't mean fudge, I mean put your best foot forward.  Don't be mean or even sarcastic, it doesn't translate.

Folks who over share angry opinions.  If you are angry about your opinion, it isn't valid for me.

The mundane. Some people share EVERYTHING on FB. Enough said!

Letting everyone know where you are and how long you will be there, or posting, "looks like you are at 123 Main St all week!! LOL".  We are not totally in control of who sees our posts. I'm not "checking in".

The reasons I'm hot (besides my appearance):

I can connect to media that I might not find on my own because I only look a the stuff I look at online.  If someone posts something interesting, I can learn something new, or at least smile!

I can continue community with people I don't live near or see often.

I can play Scrabble on FB.

I can celebrate life events that folks share on FB.

I can mourn life events that folks share on FB.

I can play Scrabble on FB.

I can remember/celebrate important events with family and friends.

January Summer Read: An Update

I gave up.  I had aspired to reading a long book during the winter months.  I just gave up.  I blogged about already here if you are tracking what a failure I am.

There are several reasons, the main one: It was too hard.  I am a smart-ish-type person, or I think of myself that way.  This book was not too hard to read, though it was rather wordy, and there was jargon in it that made it slow going.  It's a drag if you are already fighting dyslexic reading. Slow becomes tedious.

This winter has also been very cold for these parts.  I know you live where it is colder, and yet, I am cold.  This book took place 400 years ago, in England, in the winter.  Not only the dark ages, but a cold season.  Page after page was about the dank, dark, frigid conditions of the setting.

I got 50 pages into 700 and took a pause.  My grandmother told me that I had to give every book at least 50 pages before I decided to put it down.  In her honor, I think about every book I read at about page fifty.  Is this book a good book?  Do I want to read this?  Has the story even started yet?  Catch 22, I've tried it twice, but can't do it!   I decided, I'm too cold to read the book I'm reading now, which is another way of saying, I don't feel like reading it.

I went to the library and got a 200 page book that said, "A great summer read.-People Magazine" splashed on the cover.  The book is white, and has bright colors on it.  The language is about fourth grade reading level, the subject is light, modern, and takes place in the summer.  My toes are warmer already, though it may be the slippers, socks, blankets, sweats and hoodie I'm wearing.

I'll try the other again in July.

Let the Mall Fall Down

I feel like an alien at the mall.  I have been to a mall only a few dozen times in my life.  Every time I am there I don't know what to do.   It is like the first day at a new school, or in a new country, when you are not exactly sure where to put your bag, where the restroom is, or what to say to seem like you are supposed to be there.

This is how I find myself at the mall.  Do I talk to the overly friendly ladies at the kiosks in the middle of each hall?  Are those kiosks like mall-telemarketers?  Do I look people passing in the eye?  Do I keep to the right of the isles?

I'm not good at buying things that are fashionable or being in public with strangers.  It really doesn't matter as I don't live near a mall but still  I am riddled with insecurities when I rarely find myself there.  It is these very things that drove me to the customer restroom at the back of the Gap, in the mall several towns away.  It wasn't even the real mall restroom, it was the one for ladies who have been trying on the Gap jeans, behind the changing rooms.  The restroom is my trick.  If you are at a party or crowd with me, I will dash for the restroom just to get a grip (the life of a true introvert).

I'll back up.  I wouldn't have been at the mall, except that some people i like asked me to come with them for a flash mob singing of the Hallelujah Chorus.  I had received a few emails, and figured that type of thing wasn't for me.  It turns out, that if your friends call you, it is your type of thing.  We even had sushi, which means I was, for the most part, totally in!  I guess everyone else in Norther California also got the invite to the mall to 'secretly' sing the Hallelujah Chorus.  I love music, I love my friends, I love sushi, but I hate the mall.

It came as no surprise to me that we were all evacuated from the mall that night, as several thousand folks intending to sing, compromised the structural integrity of the mega-building.

As a person who is unfamiliar with malls, nothing happening there is a novelty.  The whole place is a novelty.  While I was in the bathroom, hiding from the "mob" portion of the flash mob, there was a  loud speaker announcement that we needed to evacuate.

I'm not a fool.  If someone tells me to evacuate, I do.  I wanna be the first person to evacuate.  I even knew where the exits were, as the crowd grew, so did my anxiety.  The voice over the speakers didn't say why we were participating in a mass exodus, rather than singing a Christmas song, but I left.  I left out a different door than the other 6 thousand folks there.  I left before all the trendies could finish purchasing their fancy jeans.  I left before a fire could burn the whole joint down (which was a problem, as the mall nearly burned all down 6 weeks prior, still not strange to the alien-who-is-me).

I participated in pandemonium.  There were folks in their cars for hours waiting to leave the mall exits.  A mall should be able to hold a person (or two) for every parking space.  My dad, who was a county planner, explained the parking lot is extra-too-big, so that when you drive by, you think the mall is not crowed, and pull in.  It turns out if every space is full, all those people will break the mall.

The Hallelujah part of the evening was who I was with, my friends, which didn't change because things didn't go as planned, and I survived a flash mob.

Van Gogh & Vivian Maier

This is simply beautiful. Even with the attention span of a kid raised on Sesame Street, I couldn't stop myself from watching this.

Drunk Oven

My oven in our rental didn't work until our landlord bought a new one a few days before Christmas. Before this, I would stand at the oven, while it was hot, reading the portable thermometer I bought at the grocery. When the temperature was too high, I would open the door until it cooled slightly, then shut the door until it was again too hot, repeating step one.

 Baking cookies this is a reasonable thing to do, standing in the kitchen opening and shutting the oven door for 15 minutes. Imagine this if I was baking a pie, a roast, or bread. I took the pressure off myself to cook from scratch this holiday season. I didn't want to feel neurotic with the oven door in my hand for 1 hour and 15 minutes, while the temperature hovered around 425 degrees: open, close, open, close, abierto, cerado, abierto, cerado....

I am grateful to such a landlord who would fix the problem. I'm used to problems being mine, and it was refreshing not to have to shoulder the responsibly for something that was not mine!

One aspect of the experience that was not refreshing was the odor of the installers who came to my door. They called because they were late. I was fine with their tardiness at that point, it was snowy out, it was lunchtime.   When they came to the door I realized I have been too understanding. Their smell told me they were not eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a juice box for lunch, or that they were late because it is hard to drive in the snow. Their stink was unmistakably alcohol.

I pause at the door before letting in the older worker. Do I let this man into my house to work with electrical outlets and wiring? Does this smell necessarily mean he is currently inebriated, or is it the stench from last night? I decided it was the former, and let them in anyway. I then went for a walk, while my husband stayed home to 'supervise'.

When I arrived home, the new oven was working, and I imagined all the pizza I could bake, cookies I could bring to parties, and fresh bread smells wafting through the house. I didn't feel sorry for two grown men who drink enough to smell like it by lunchtime, I didn't worry if they installed the oven wrong. I simply was glad the oven worked, and if it didn't, it wasn't my problem.  This maybe foolhardy, but after 2 weeks, nothing has exploded.