Middle Aged Treehouse

Bad words / badder words

2009-07-30T15:02:00.000-07:00

It's not unusual for there to be a school age child or two hanging around my workplace. Since Higher Education seems to be a landing pad for tired, aging creatives dropping off the fast track, my office is extremely understanding about this.

And since I have more office toys than most, the kiddos tend to show up at my cubicle, squirming and fingering all the shiny things.

My boss's son Austin is a bright, polite third-grader with a two-year-old baby sister. We were making small talk this afternoon when he informed me, "Olivia is learning bad words."

Well okay, now. Finally, something interesting!

"Really? What kind of words? Where did she learn them?"

"Mostly from my grandmother, and me."

My mind went back to Kate's first curse word, which she picked up from my mother at age two. She had repeated it into her PlaySkool My First Tape Recorder over and over as if she were summoning some kind of mother ship, relishing each syllable:

"Godddd Dammmit. GAHD daahhhmmit. God damMITT. "

My mother had cried with embarrassment when I popped out the cassette, labeled it with a Sharpie and tucked it away with Kate's first lock of hair.

I said to Austin, "Yeah, my two-year-old also learned her first bad word from Grandma."

"Really?" He was wide-eyed. "What word was it?"

"A really bad one. I can't say it."

"Please? I'll tell you Olivia's if you'll tell me what Kate said."

"Okay. It was "G-D."

Austin's face clouded.

"What's... "G-D?"

Uh oh.

"Oh, nothing."

"You know what Olivia says? Olivia says 'shut up.'"

"Really? Shut up?"

"Yeah, and once I think she said 'crap!'"

"Austin, those aren't such bad words!"

"Yeah, they are. They are if you're my age!"

Crap.

Vexing questions

2009-01-15T07:26:00.000-08:00

Where does Prince shop for clothes?

Is there Scrabble in Slavic countries, and if so, are the vowels worth more points and the v and y and worth practically nothing?

Why do old people drive so slow? Don't they realize they don't have much time left?

Prayer for the Child Who Has Moved to New York City

2008-11-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

I'm kind of a half-assed Christian, I'll admit. I usually wait to get into deep and meaningful conversations with the big Creator and Mr. Jesus when I'm on a really turbulent aircraft. Living in a part of the country where there's a lot of fire and brimstone, finger pointing, hating, smugness, judgment, damnation and very narrow interpretations of things has caused me to not care much that I don't attend church on a regular basis. My disdain for most organized religions (an oxymoron, if you ask me) has pushed me into developing my own little personal church that I carry around with myself. So much for that "where two or more are gathered" passage. Anyway, the Church of Tracy does have routine prayers and rituals. Here is one I enjoy daily.

Dear God,

Please let Kate travel swiftly and safely on the subway each day. Keep her from falling into that electrifed pit just inches from her feet when she overconfidently stands past that yellow line the MTA painted for a reason. Please guide the crazy smelly people who are panhandling for money for crack and booze to get nicer lives so that my daughter won't have to pretend she is listening to her iPod or doesn't speak English. Guide them away from her sweet young face and let them not realize she is traveling alone. Let the streets she travels daily be smooth and free from ankle-cracking potholes, puddles, ear-shattering noises, dog poop and cat-calling construction workers who whistle and shout things to her in Spanish and Italian. Help Kate remember to wear her baggy raincoat over her clingy audition dresses so that said catcalls are kept to a minimum. Help her to find the right subway stop so she doesn't have to call upon her acting skills to appear brave when the walk to the museum turns out to five blocks through Crack Alley. Let the GPS system in her iPhone not fail her and may she always get a strong signal. Thanks ever so much!

Your faithful-in-her-own-way devotee,
Tracy

Warming trend

2008-11-20T21:31:00.001-08:00

Earlier this week, I leaned down to turn off the electric heated seats in my car. Guess what? They weren't on.

And you know the little cans of compressed air people keep near their keyboards to blow off dust and dog hair and sesame seeds that fall off their bagels? They work great on sweaty, flushed fifty-year-old faces. Several times a day, I grab that can and blast away the effects of my broken down, midlife thermostat, my hair lifting and flying behind me like a Scavullo model.

Check me out, Paris Hilton. I'm HOT!

The Boy Mom

2008-09-28T12:10:00.000-07:00

Today is Sunday, day 2 of my "All about boys" weekend. Dave is out of town, Kate's away at college, so it was just me and my 15-year-old son. And his pal. And ACDC.

It started with the first swim meet of the season yesterday morning. I did my best, though I still earn a solid C -minus in the sports mom department. For starters, I wore the first thing available: the t-shirt I slept in, a pale green number commemorating the 2000 production of A Midsummer Night's Dream the Musical, (about which I am very sentimental, since I designed and built over 100 costumes for it). Having learned from last season that being a swim parent involves at least 4 hours of sitting on a cruel metal bleacher seat, I went prepared. I grabbed the plastic circa 1974 stadium cushion my parents recently returned to me, adorned with my own high school mascot. Oh, and I took some knitting. And some reading.

As I sat among the screaming sea of Mustang spirit red and blue, I realized what an odd bird I was. Even the color of the hat I was knitting was wrong, a parent pointed out. Was I imagining that I was getting squinted glares for my folded copy of the New York Times? No matter. My son was thrilled that I was there for the entire day, even if I did accidentally cheer several times for another boy who looks remarkably like my child (it's so hard to tell when they take off their glasses).

The rest of the weekend went (forgive the pun) swimmingly. Some of the high points:

• Jack's group lunch / movie date with friends while I avoided housework off at home
• Swim team party at local arcade while I made a feeble attempt at that housework
• Hosting a sleepover with Jack's friend Connor, which required nothing more than inflating a guest bed and cooking a frozen pizza
• Breakfast at Krispy Creme
• Trip to hardware store, rolling eyes when boys laughed at word "hard" and horsed around in the trash can aisle as they modeled makeshift Star Wars costumes they made with the merchandise
• Buying mulch and chrysanthemums at the hardware store, creating an allergic reaction in Connor
• Taking the boys to Blockbuster once the minivan was properly aired out
• Watching the boys eat burritos larger than the average newborn infant (okay, I had one too)

I'd say it's been a pretty great weekend so far.

Where the boys are: it's a little noisy, sugary and greasy, but it's nice.

Hello again, dusty little blog!

2008-09-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm back!

Has is really been over a year? I had to get Kate off to college. But now I'm sure I'll have plenty to share.

Quip of the Day

2007-07-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

From a co-worker:

"Why are there so many half-assed people in the workplace?
Not me. I use my whole ass!"

Milk, milk, lemonade

2007-07-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

If you giggled at this blog title, you likely shared in the great American experience of Dirty Little Playground Ditties.

Oh, c'mon. You remember.

First, second and third grade. The wonder years where witty poems and naughty little songs were forever etched into our shiny new little brains. Timeless humor classics like:

"Milk, milk, lemonade; 'round the corner fudge is made." This is accompanied by a hand gesture, pointing out various body parts.

"Army, Navy, Preacher, Teacher." Again, naughty gestures make this visual joke work. You never forget your first dirty sight gag.

Other works in this very special genre: the Comet song; the Bus Driver song; several politically incorrect Asian references involving pulling the eyes into a forced slant; "Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg;" "Great big globs of greasy grimy gopher guts;" and so on.

Are they coming back to you now?

What prompted this trip down memory lane was out tonight's dinner at our favorite dive pancake house. I had the kids and Kate's friend Kelly with me, and the waitress asked which of us wanted milk. I pointed to Kelly and myself, saying, "Milk. Milk." Under my breath, "lemonade" sort of slipped out for my own (I thought) private amusement.

When the waitress came with a tall lemonade a few moments later, we were all puzzled, until I realized she had heard my little utterance.

"Oh, I was just kidding about the lemonade," I apologized, scanning her lined face for any signs of recall of those fun Cold War days. "Um, you remember the old playground rhyme, don't you?"

"No, ma'am. I thought you ordered lemonade."

She was blank and all business. I was getting lemonade.

Hmmmph, I thought to myself. Surely this woman spent time jumping rope on a school blacktop during the sixties. Or perhaps the fifties, judging by that crepe-y neck. Perhaps her monkey bar years were just too far behind her.

Or maybe I just have a sophomoric sense of humor, one that didn't fade as I crossed over into parenthood.

I remember being secretly pleased when my daughter came home from first grade, breathlessly informing me:

"Mom, Blake Ballinger is a genius. Listen to this song he made up himself!"

I stepped in when she got to the part where Comet tastes just like gasoline.

"Honey, I agree that Blake is a comic genius, but I gotta tell you, I learned that song in 1965. Don't be disappointed. It's kind of like folk songs— they just get passed from one generation to the next. Like spirituals, or bible stories. Okay, maybe that's not a good example."

Kate skipped away, a bit miffed that she wasn't getting original material, but happy to pass the torch onto the next playmate.

Isn't it nice to know the schools are still offering the classics?

Smarty Pants

2007-04-09T19:53:00.000-07:00

Kate's high school social life has taken off this year, so Saturday night I found myself offering to take a neighborhood babysitting gig she couldn't follow through with.

"I don't know why they even hire a sitter for Emily," Kate told me. "That kid is brighter than any adult. Last time, she showed me how to knit using only my bare fingers."

Last summer, Kate and I had taught ourselves to knit using a "Knitting for Teens" book we bought after hearing a radio show where guest Dakota Fanning had discussed her hobby of knitting on movie sets. We figured if a ten-year-old could knit a scarf, then dammit, so could we.

Our little neighbor, Emily, is nine. I think she and Ms. Fanning would be fast friends.

Saturday night arrived. Feeling bad that Kate had bailed on her, I flew into Former Art Teacher mode and showed up at Emily's front door with a Mary Poppins-sized bag of tricks that included yarn, watercolors and polymer clay.

"Oh, you can just put that right there," Emily chirped at me, peering over her glasses. "Would you like some balloon animals? Let me get my pump. I'd be glad to make you some!"

Emily produced an air pump the size of a pogo stick and quickly twisted a length of balloon into a perky poodle. "Voila! You may take him home!"

While I was still blinking and trying to figure out how the poodle was formed, Emily started setting up the board game.

I had not played the game of Life in at least 35 years. No problem. Emily would re-teach me, advising me on which real estate dealings and insurance purchases would be the most lucrative.

For my Life career, I drew the Artist card, appropriately, earning mere chump change to Emily's dual career of Professor and Tech Specialist. Emily managed to fill her plastic minivan token with several daughters, win both a Nobel and a Pulitzer prize, and flip a Victorian mansion. I bagged a deadbeat hubby and childlessly meandered through Life, winning only a local art contest before retiring to my pathetic little log cabin. Emily pulled out a huge calculator and began totaling the money.

"Oh, guess what, Mrs. B.—you won!"

"Emily, honey, you need to check your figures. There is no way I could have won."

Emily gave a breathless performance to rival that of her star twin Dakota Fanning. "Nope. The calculator doesn't lie!" She hummed happily as she neatly collected the game pieces.

She squinted down at her watch. "Okay, my bedtime is at nine. We have ten minutes left to draw cartoons before I go brush my teeth. I usually do a bit of reading before I drop off."

Something in my highly competitive self was at a loss to react to this tiny child who had just entertained me with balloon animals and let me win at a board game. The tables had turned. I had been supplanted, then surpassed.

I decided to dazzle her with my mad cartooning skills.

"Oh, you're doing very well," she cooed.

"Thanks. I'm a professional artist, you know."

Perhaps I only imagined that this tiny nine-year-old smirked politely as if to say, Yes, that's why your ancient minivan hasn't been fixed and you can't afford to update your house. I'm sure she didn't mean to make me feel inadequate.

Aftering a few minutes of doodling, Emily held up her masterpiece. A stylish cartoon worm, wearing sunglasses, exclaimed, "Hey! Who turned out the lights?" to a squid who retorted, "What?"

"Get it?" Emily pointed enthusiastically. "Earthworms are blind, and squids are deaf!"

"Oh, of course!" I nodded, wishing I had actually read the stack of Smithsonian magazines piling up in my den.

With a cheery "Good night!" my time with little Emily was done. I busied myself with a book until the parents arrived.

I hope they go out again soon. I'm dying to learn how to finger knit.

War of the Words

2007-02-28T17:47:00.000-08:00

I never worry about my daughter starving to death as an out-of-work actor/singer someday. The way her brain works, any Madison Avenue agency would be crazy not to hire her for freelance ideas, words, and schemes.

Since Kate started driving last fall, I don't get too many opportunities to take her places in my van anymore. Fortunately, the trip to her guitar teacher is a dark, fast and poorly marked one, so she still allows me to chauffeur her this one night a week.

My creative daughter knows I have a fear of heights. Just peering over the railing at the second level at the mall makes my skin crawl. So whenever the road I drive elevates onto a huge, curving overpass, she starts with her so-called-wit.

"Wow, Mom! {gasp} Wouldja look down there?! Look how HIGH UP HERE we are right now! We must be at least three stories up here! It's so far down. Down, down, down, yes -- and only this pitiful little guardrail between your front tire and, well, you know. I can't believe HOW HIGH WE ARE!!!!"

But last night I was ready for her.

"Kate, did I see you biting your thumbnail about an hour ago? Why, yes, I'm sure I did. I sure hope with our three dogs and your little dwarf hamster -- oh, honey, when did you last clean that smelly cage? Before Christmas, right? Well, as I was saying, I certainly HOPE you don't get exposed to some kind of little worm. You know they're as common as dirt, and you know with all those critters, we have plenty of dirt coming in the house! It would just be horrible, wouldn't it, to have some kind of roundworm or pinworm or hookworm just CHURNING and TURNING inside your lower intenstine, just feeding off your tired little blood. Hey, didn't Sean have all three kinds of worms one time? But let's not think about that!

We called a description truce.

My Husband the Pot Head

2007-01-18T21:44:00.000-08:00

A huge, heavy box arrived today, containing yet more evidence of my husband's mid-life crisis.

From the box came the four biggest pieces of cookware Calphalon makes, to add to David's already impressive collection. I suspect it took two UPS guys to get it to the front door. I can't lift half the skillets. (I think that's what you call them.)

In a dishrack on the counter, Dave has lovingly arranged eight tempered glass pot/pan lids vertically in descending size order, like some kind of gleaming musical instrument.

"This one was free," my born-again foodie hubby purred, straining to lift a silver saucepan large enough to easily accommodate a cocker spaniel.

"That's great, honey," I responded, guesstimating that the massive utensil might allow us to prepare two boxes of Hamburger Helper at the same time.

I don't dare ask how much he had to spend to get that freebie, but I suspect we are now Even Steven on the Broadway show tickets I purchased online, when I unflinchingly clicked the "best seats available" button.

Having little interest in cooking myself, I maintain that David was sent to me from Heaven above. I've made a mental note to clean out the side of the kitchen cupboard that I have stuffed with craft supplies since the kids were in diapers. The least I can do would be to help make room for these massive tools of culinary artistry. Maybe even some groceries.

My mom was right: the way to a man's heart really is by way of his stomach. Even if he's the one doing all the cooking.

Flying Is No Fun Anymore, Part 2

2007-01-16T22:29:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, Airport Security left a bad taste in my mouth. Literally.

The TSA folks took my toothpaste. They also absconded with my beloved tube of rich and creamy Gold Bond Lotion, the magical substance that keeps my collagen-deprived skin from looking like oven-roasted crepe paper.

I had assumed since the items were not really liquids and both containers only held small amounts of product, they would pass muster. Apparently not. Only Barbie-sized bottles of potentially explosive liquids, creams, and gels are legit these days.

"What happens to these things?" I asked, relieved that I didn't bring my Elizabeth Arden miracle elixir that costs as much as a one-way plane ticket. "Can I come claim them later?" (These days, I need every drop of help I can get in the skin department.)

"Nope," the burly toothpaste gatekeeper murmured seriously. "We get rid of them. We don't even donate them to charity."

Well, of course not, I thought to myself. I mean, they're potentially dangerous, life-threatening items, right? Imagine the carnage if a big tube of toothpaste exploded on impact at the local night shelter. There could be all sorts of terror lurking inside that crumpled tube. Nitro glycerin. Nerve gas. An atom bomb. I certainly hope the rejected toiletries are handled carefully by a properly-trained HazMat team.

I was also deemed a problem traveler because the plastic bag holding my creamy contraband exceeded TSA plastic bag size regulations. Not wishing to be a felon, I worked to suppress a snappy comeback when I heard these words:

"Um, ma'am — your Baggie's too big."

What? I beg your pardon?

I must have missed the memo saying it had to be one quart sized. After some discussion, and some peering into my supersized Baggie to determine there was nothing else in it, (Duh!) I was allowed to pass.

Kate was the next problem child. She held up the snakey line of cranky 6 a.m. travelers for a good five minutes by befuddling the X-ray machine with her mystery shoes, new ballet flats which had some kind of hidden steel-lined sole that the machine couldn't see through. After a good bit of head scratching from several TSA employees, a mother's plea that the child could hardly visit New York City barefoot, and a consultation with a supervisor, we were finally let through.

Later, I saw Kate pull a 4-oz bottle of spray perfume from her purse. I guess they overlooked it, even though I'm pretty sure it's a flammable liquid violation.

And sadly, not useful as a mouthwash.

The Winds of Change

2006-12-09T09:12:00.000-08:00

Lighting a candle this morning (my personal War on Doggie Smell, which will likely drag on longer than any conflict in the Middle East) reminded me of this week's most interesting headline:

Flatulence, lit matches cited in flight diversion

This gem ran in the business pages of our metropolitan paper. Just above the headline: AMERICAN AIRLINES in bulky capital letters. To make a bizarre story shorter:

A Dallas-bound flight was diverted to Nashville after passengers reported smelling burning matches. All 99 passengers and five crew members were taken off the plane and screened while the plane was searched and luggage was screened. The FBI questioned a passenger who admitted that she struck the matches in an attempt to conceal a "body odor." She had an unspecified medical condition, authorities said.

Now I know the world has changed drastically since 9/11. But, really — they made an emergency landing and called in the FBI?

I remember when the airlines wouldn't land a plane for any reason. Pregnant women and sick people just had to tough it out. Women gave birth to breech triplets and were told to bite on a package of pretzels and make the best of it.

Not only did passengers pass wind without attention, they routinely passed away without a fuss. When a person died in mid-flight, flight attendents simply put a blanket over the dearly departed's face and continued to dole out tiny bottles of Bloody Mary mix and miniature Salisbury steaks as if nothing had happened. Those were the days.

Lit matches? I can remember when dozens of travelling smokers kept a fixated gaze on the international "NO FUMAR" symbol above, drooling like Pavlov's dog waiting for the "ding!" that came with the light going off. Sixty five people would then light up at the same time, to the clinking of ice in small plastic cups, awaiting the first of several cheerfully served cocktails. Cigarettes weren't the only things getting lit.

Not that I enjoyed all that secondhand smoke and drunken travelers. Certainly, some changes were in order. But what in the world has happened to airline travel? I don't dare try to take my knitting needles on a flight. I'm sure that anyone showing up at an airport with such sinister pokers of death would be subject to a thorough cavity search and a possible investigation by the CIA.

Mom and I had a good laugh about the "unspecified medical condition" in the article.

My mother — who is kept young by her sophomoric, 13-year-old boy sense of humor — suggested that now terrorists might get the idea to eat platefuls of beans before boarding, sit strategically and blow up an aircraft by, well, you get the picture.

Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas!

Expiring Minds Wanna Know

2006-12-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

Why is a television called a "television set?" Set of what? Fifty years ago did this refer to the TV and the antennae that came with it? That's my guess. Anyone?

Holiday Tips

2006-11-26T20:31:00.000-08:00

DON'T wear your favorite Joan and David shoes to a tree lot where flocking is taking place. (Turns out, flocking is some kind of toxic particulate matter blown out of a spray hose with something akin to SuperGlue. And they don't just apply it neatly to the branches. No, they create a big fake blizzard just to the side of the tree as it whirls on a motorized revolving base, and hope that some of the bogus snow finds itself on the boughs. Trippy!)

DON'T take your asthmatic son to a tree lot where flocking is taking place.

DON'T take your sulky, opinionated teenaged daughter — who's cranky that the weather is balmy — to a tree lot where flocking is taking place.

And finally, DON'T use the little replacement Christmas light bulb with the red tip unless you want your home to look like the flashing neon entrance to a Malaysian brothel. (An effect some folks prefer, I realize.)

_____________ N E W S F L A S H ! ________________

My first-ever flocked tree is standing proud in our living room, and it is fabulous!

Another Christmas Tree Story

2006-11-25T08:05:00.000-08:00

Looking back at my childhood, there were signs that I might become a graphic design person.

As early as second grade, when my mother's sloppy handwriting offended my aesthetic, she was only too happy to let me hand-letter anything that needed to look presentable. We joke that I was the only third grader whose mother actually encouraged to sign their own report card.

Mom did another quietly encouraging thing to fan my creative fire. When I was in fourth grade, my pilot father (also a pretty good encourager) brought home a package of 100 sheets of origami paper from San Francisco.

The crane was my favorite origami pattern because it actully had moving parts; I loved making those wings flap. A few hours after tearing into the package of neat paper squares, I had 100 origami cranes of varying sizes and colors.

I begged Mom to forego the usual decorations that year and put nothing but my cranes on the tree. She was delighted to let me.

So in 1967, we had the only themed tree on Pleasant View Drive, and my first big "project" was a sucess.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

The F Word

2006-11-22T15:18:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me well understands that I have a lifelong obsession with Christmas trees.

When I was little in the 1960s, my family would drive around looking at holiday lights. I would see a huge aluminum silver tree change colors in a big bay window and murmur, "Ooooooh!" knowing that my parents would never, ever let us have something as flashy as one of those. While my mother quickly embraced the latest in artificial plastic trees (we had horrid allergies), she was fairly traditional in her decorating schemes.

A decade ago I stumbled upon a seven foot aluminum tree at a yard sale. My childhood fantasy would at last be realized! I decided to put it up in my kitchen next to my collection of aluminum kitchen ware. (A theme! Yes!)

Several seasons later, aluminum trees returned to retail stores in a kitschy comeback. No one can believe I snagged mine for a mere five bucks.

My kids love buying a real tree at Christmas. We've made a family tradtiion out of heading to the lot (sometimes several lots; now and then lots of lots) on the first chilly night after Thanksgiving (sometimes we have for up to a week after the turkey is gone; this is Texas, after all) and bickering for at least half an hour over which tree is perfect for our living room.

I own an indecent amount — hundreds — of Christmas decorations, so I like to get the biggest, fattest, fluffiest Noble or Fraser fir I can find, preferably with some kind of branch mutation. Treezilla. Our modestly sized house has an eight-foot ceiling, and it's really hard to determine how tall a tree really is when you're outside, so some years Dave has to lop off a foot or two just to get the thing inside. How many people go to a tree lot and have their children shriek, "MOM! NO! It's too BIG!" remembering some of the gumdrop-shaped monstrosities that have filled our living room.

The biggest problem with tree selection is that my parent's Good Taste gene obviously skipped me and went to both of my kids. Over the years they have learned to love the silver 1960s tree, but every year they talk me out of buying another childhood dream: a FLOCKED tree.

I've wanted one since 1964 and never had one. Maybe it's the lack of snow in Texas that makes the flocked tree so attractive. I only know that last year, when all four family members were negotiating over which of the tree finalists would be thrown on the top on my minivan, Kate said, and I quote:

"Okay, Mom. If you let us have this small and tasteful tree this year, next year we can finally get your stupid flocked one." (Isn't she charming? What a heartwarming glimpse into my family's holiday traditions.)

I caved in. Kate's tree choice was fine, just a bit dinkier than I would have liked.

Actually, it was the sorriest shrub we'd ever brought home and I've been fuming for a year.

So in just a few days, the fabulously fake FLOCKED fir will be mine.

Flock, yeah!

This Purse Weighs a Fortune

2006-11-19T21:08:00.000-08:00

My mother has always inspired me with her sense of humor. And she has kept her family and friends amused for years, often without even knowing it. I have mentioned that she was the Queen of Malapropisms, enjoying "the Dog Worshipper" on television. Here are a few more examples of her gems:

"Hey, there are two of us. Let's use the HIV lane!"

"If you can't stand the heat, get out of the oven."

"This purse weighs a fortune!"

"Don't kick a gift horse in the mouth."

Mom is a smart cookie, but she sometimes takes vocabulary fairly lightly. If a big word sounds right, it'll do for Mom, and we usually know what she means. Except for a few months ago when Mom was giving me a health update over the phone.

"I'm feeling great, honey, and doing fine," Mom chirped cheerfully."And next Wednesday, I'm getting a colostomy while I'm in town!"

"Mom, what?— A colostomy? Oh my god, that's, that's kind of major, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, honey, it's nothing. Really. I thought I'd go to the Galleria afterward."

"Mom, a colostomy is major surgery, involving an external bag — why are you having this done?"

"Oh, wait. I'm not having a colostomy. I'm having a colon, um, something else that starts with C."

We finally figured out the word she was searching for was colonoscopy.

You should hear some of the things she says to describe the breed of dog she'd like to own: a Bichon Frise.

Three Dog Night

2006-11-18T18:29:00.000-08:00

Dave and Jack are camping with the Scouts this weekend. But it's been anything but dull for Kate and me. And I had not one, but three bed buddies with me last night.

Some dog owners keep their pets in the yard. Some dog owners let their pooches sleep in crates or little soft beds in their room. And then there is our family, whose canine family members take turns cuddling like spoons next to us on cold nights.

Actually, two of our trio of dogs seem to know their place. Sean Connery only occasionally dares to jump up on our bed. And little cold-natured Charlie's nightly ritual is to adhere himself to my shins, providing me my own soothing, soft furry hot water bottle of sorts.

But alpha bitch Allie, the queen of border collies, The Entitled One, does not believe for one second that she is merely a dog. She is obsessed with luxuriating in our beds. If I don't close our bedroom doors during the day, she will pull back the comforters with her teeth and unmake each bed, climbing underneath the covers and dozing, her silky black and whi†e head on the pillow.

People who love dogs don't think like rational people. It's hard to resist Allie's abundant charm. Last night was cold and lonely, so even Sean joined the party. My bed looked like a canine version of the Sound of Music where all the various sizes of von Trapp children run to Maria's room during a storm. I could have easily forgotten that snuggling Allie was even a dog were it not for being steamed awake by the heated puffing of what we call her "rotting corpse breath."

There is never any true sleeping in for me, as the matriarchal unit of this den and morning feeder. The dog gang is solar activated, so at precisely 6am, when the tiniest sliver of light starts to peek through the windows, the begging for breakfast begins.

Sean is the whining child of the bunch. He positions himself beside the alarm clock and starts whimpering softly, then progressively louder, like a snooze alarm. Allie is much less subtle, standing over my head and poking her front paw first on my shoulder and finally in my eye socket until I'm fully awake. She starts with a stage whisper woof, emitting just a little latrine breath from her puffy cheeks, and works toward a full fledged bark if I don't get moving.

But first, a trip outside. I am not a morning person, so this involves me trying not to be seen in the growing light, because I'm usually wearing either pajama top or bottom with one of David's army jackets, and whatever footwear happens to be lying nearest the back door, most often the heeled mules I wore to work the day before. Since I'm not fully awake, I don't care terribly much.

Then the feeding. This part kind of pisses me off. I can't even go back to bed while they all eat. I have to maintain a lifeguard's perch near little Charlie or the other two bullies will take his kibble and his lunch money. Then morning recreation, involving some more semi-supervised outside time.

If I'm dressed enough to go to the front yard to get the newspaper, my little pack of wolves will sometimes accompany me. I know, I know — something as smart as a Border Collie should be bright and hardworking enough to go fetch my paper. But a few years ago they mistook the phrase "paper" for "Squirrel in the tree!" and I don't know how to fix this. And it's so funny to watch them run hopefully to the tree when I say "paper."

Who's the boss here? I know it's not me. But the dogs and I have an arrangement.

"You need to watch "The Dog Worshipper," my mom tells me. "Then you could get them to do anything you wanted." Mom is the biggest malapropism user and television watcher I've ever known.

"Mom, I am the dog worshipper. I think you mean "whisperer."

I have to go now. Someone is telling me they need to go outside.

A long way, baby

2006-10-31T18:49:00.000-08:00

Today was Halloween, the high holy day for certain creative and theatrical types.

I broke out an old favorite — a homemade reproduction vintage Brownie costume cobbled together in women's size 14 splendor— to wear to work. I had previously used it for a "Come as you were" New Year's Eve party in 2000.

It's nearly bedtime as I write this, and I'm still wearing it, brown felt beanie and all. But hey, that's why this place is called the Middle Aged Treehouse.

The accessory that garnered the most attention today wasn't the beanie. It was my 1965 official Brownie handbook. This book, I discovered with a little Googling, was printed in 1963 and was used by Girl Scouts of America until 1975.

My female coworkers howled over the pages with titles like "What does Mother do?" illustrated with charming drawings of good Brownies watching the baby, serving snacks from a tray while wearing an apron, and vacuuming. "Tools to help around the house" included of course, the vacuum, an eggbeater, and a dustpan. The craft section of the book showed how to create an adorable dog sculpture from rocks and airplane cement to "decorate Father's desk."

"Holy shit!" my editor, Nancy laughed loudly, but I could tell there was thinly veiled resentment lurking in that snort. "Look at the messages we were being brainwashed with."

"You think that's bad?" I said. "Check this out."

I took Nancy and Mark on a quick online trip to eBay to see one of the board games that lived in the house where I grew up.

The box of this Milton Bradley favorite featured a color illustration of a family enjoying a lively game of Battleship: A father and son sit at a card table. Dad is shown holding what looks like a plastic ship nearly the length of his hand (They must have been a Munchkin family, since the actual game pieces were about 2 inches in size, tops) and laughing goodnaturedly with the words "It's a HIT!" dancing near his beaming face.

Just behind Dad's shoulder, in the background, is a mom wearing a shirtwaist dress and apron, washing dishes while the daughter helps dry.

Mark, born in 1979, was aghast. A quick eBay search showed that this box design was replaced in 1971 with a picture of a boy and girl playing.

I was born in the late 1950's. What was it that kept me from buying into the June Cleaver thing?

Cool parents, for one thing. Even though my mom was June Cleaver, she didn't encourage me to be.

Plus, I think I was just not wired that way.

For a brief time, I remember wanting to build a Soap Box Derby car with my dad. When I found out girls were not allowed, I just shrugged it off, but a couple years later I did go to my pastor to inquire why our church had never had female acolytes. (Thank you, Pastor Roger, for letting Cindy and I be the first girl candlelighters ever at Peace church.)

That Brownie handbook is filled with my seven-year-old scrawl: my careful signature, lopsided drawings of trefoil shapes, my own handwritten rendition of the Girl Scout Promise. To see what I wrote in one of the fill-in-the-blank pages delighted me, and explains a lot about my life:

I can help at home by ______________.

The word I filled in was "thinking."

"Your Purse is Like a Clown Car"

2006-10-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

That's what my work buddy Mark told me today as I fished through my handbag today. I pulled out three tubes of mascara, a large pressed powder compact, an eyeliner pencil, a large blush compact, two pair of scissors, an eye shadow compact, and two pair of nail clippers.

Ironically, though I carry several pounds of makeup in my bag every day, little to none of it ever finds its way to my face. I have good intentions, and now and then I use the time I spend at traffic lights on my morning commute to hastily apply something cosmetic to my very busy face.

Hmm. Something I need to work on, I think. Who needs to haul around an extra two pounds of good intentions?

Thought for the Day

2006-10-01T19:17:00.000-07:00

Best bumper sticker I've seen lately:

God is too big for any one religion.

That was my substitute church when I drove Kate to an early rehearsal today.

Moving on

2006-09-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

Well, Kate's been driving for 72 hours when she has her first accident.

In our driveway.

This is the first morning she has to back the car out to turn it around; Dave and I have been doing it for her. I watch her in case she needs guiding, but no, the kid can back perfectly. When it's time to drive forward to exit, she turns the corner going left, going around the house where I can't see her, and I'm thinking, "Dang, she drives better than I can," when I hear a soft, muffled crunchy sound.

I think, "Wha--? Surely that was nothing. She must have run over a stick or something." I start to go into the house but change my mind.

Walking around the corner, I see that she has continued to turn left, so that instead of continuing straight down the driveway, she's veered into a flowerbed and made contact with a large crepe myrtle. There's a round, dirt-smudged cave-in about 14 inches in diameter on Ishmael's (Kate named the car after reading Moby Dick) front left fender, which is now squished down almost to the tire. There are about 12 inches of black tire tread on the tree.

Tire marks on a tree?

By the time I get to her, she has already pulled the car out of this strange position, but the curved tire marks arcing through the flowerbed make it easy to see what has happened. In order to get the car into this spot, she would have been just inches from the side of the house.

She is sobbing, Lucille Ball-style.

"My coffee mug was tipping over! I only looked down for a second! Are you gonna tell Dad? (huge gulp of air) He's gonna be so ma-ha-haaaaaaad! Aaaaaa!"

Kate has this Starbucks thermal mug her friend Aubrey personalized for her Sweet 16. She loves it. Its plastic outer liner holds pictures from musicals and bits and pieces of Kate's show scripts (a great gift idea, by the way).

I snatch the mug, saying something about, "NO drinks, no phone, no iPod, until you get used to driving." After about ten minutes she calms down and I decide it she doesn't drive herself to school this very morning she will be forced to take buses and cabs for the rest of her life. I tell her to proceed with extreme caution and to text me the nanosecond she gets to school.

Fifteen minutes later, my cell phone beeps.

I'm at school okay. I am so sorry and so stupid

Everyone goes on with their day. At school, Kate gets teased by the choir teacher, who has heard the story from me. She laughs about it. She returns home, and texts:

home again, home again, jiggety jig

After school she tells me in her best grownup voice she knows how to be careful and can she please go pick Braeden up and take him to Tinseltown. I say, "Okay with me, but you have to clear it with Dad and that means telling all about the morning's debacle."

Of course, the whole reason we saved my old clunker car was that Dave predicted this day would come. The steel-caged, airbag-equipped 1993 Volvo sedan has 240,000 miles, a few dents and dings, and an N.A.D.A. book value of well, nada. So I figure Dave will be okay, maybe a little crabby.

Kate starts crying again when she tells him about the morning. He takes it well; he's actually quite fatherly, calm and sympathetic.

Until he sees the car.

Then he lets out this sound: "Huuuuaagh!" like someone just shot him in the back. The expletives start flying. Now I have to talk HIM down. I start considering a career in counseling.

Then he sees the tree.

"HOW? HOW? HOW did you do this?"

More blubbering from my daughter, whose eye makeup now looks like something from Children of the Corn.

Later at dinner, I say a blessing, talking to our Heavenly Father mostly on Kate's behalf. Jack and Dave and I are suppressing laughter over my gratitude and requests while Kate is in tears again. Miraculously, albeit after an endless lecture, my husband kindly tells Kate she can go pick Braeden up from the Appleby's where his parents have taken him to dinner, about a mile from our house.

Kate slowly drives away. About 10 seconds later, she calls me.

She's at the end of the driveway.

"Uh, which way is Appleby's?" I do not believe my ears.

So David tells her to follow him to the street to Appleby's and I am thinking, "Are we insane? Are we crazy to let her out on the streets?"

Well, are we?

I guess I'll find out in exactly three and a half hours when the battered old Volvo pulls into the driveway.

Please, God.

Not getting any younger? Says who?

2006-09-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I did something I had not done since about 8th grade. I took a ball-point pen and wrote a message on my hand so that I would not forget an appointment. Big blocky letters now speak to me from my wrinkled, liver-spotted, collagen-deprived dishpan hand.

Two days ago I also did something unbecoming for a 48-year-old woman; I kicked an inanimate object. I kicked the crap out of a vending machine that robbed me of $2.70 of the $2.80 worth of couch cushion money I had shaken from my purse. I am not a violent or hot tempered person. But here is how it happened:

At 3 o' clock Monday, a tiny, sinister voice spoke to me at my desk.

"Must have chocolate. Must have chocolate NOW."

I crept to the downstairs vending area, a dark place only frequented by the science grad students pulling all-nighters. I was in luck; the machine had been recently filled with sweet and salty snacks for the tired and the desperate.

I pushed two crispy fresh dollar bills into the money slot before figuring out this machine must prefer shiny coins. Coins did indeed do the trick, but alas, the Reese's Cup I had actually chosen based on the fact that it looked the least likely to get hung up in the machine did precisely that. At this point, I felt nothing but rage. I banged my fist on the machine's plexiglass front, hoping to disengage the overpriced treat. I bumped it with my hip. Twice. Finally, even though I knew my phony kung fu would get me nowhere, I gave my best drill team high kick to the machine's mocking face, hoping no one would witness this useless (and stupid-looking) gesture. I was so exasperated I actually pulled out my cell phone and called the number on the sticker above the coin slot.

"Hello, I am just calling to tell you that I am a gentle, middle-aged mother of two and that your malfunctioning machine has pushed me to violence. I have no money, and no chocolate!"

The woman who answered the phone was a pro. She practically purred, "Oh! Ma'am, I am so sorry! What building are you in? I will let the technicians know. And you can go collect reimbursement from the business office over there and we'll take care of that."

"Um, thanks. I think I'm okay now. I just wanted you guys to know this thing isn't working."

I felt like a crazy woman talked down from the ledge. I must have looked it, too, because my editor took pity on me and maternally walked me over to the nearest 7-Eleven for a candy bar. I guess I'm living up to one of my favorite quotes by Odgen Nash:

"You can never be young again, but you can stay immature indefintely."

But they just got here

2006-09-02T22:35:00.000-07:00

We were cleaning house today. I got ambitious and decided to finish changing the cabinet handles in our kitchen and den, with Jack's help.

"You'll need to remove these," I told my son, pointing to the odd remaining plastic child-proof latches.

"What are these?" asked Jack.

"Safety latches. They kept you out of trouble when you were little."

We are still living in our first house, the house we brought both our babies home to. My children have never known bedrooms other than the ones they occupy now. I also realized today that we still keep all the measuring cups in a bottom kitchen drawer, a trick my mom taught me so that a baby could entertain itself while I cooked. Our ceramic cookie jar is in the form of Mister Frumble, the pig from the Richard Scarry books. (Yes, you know!— the one who wore a green hat and drove the pickle car.)

Last month we painted over the fluffy storybook clouds in Jack's room to reinvent the room with a mossy green coat of paint. I had created this mural when I was seven months pregnant and I still consider it one of my proudest artistic endeavors. I've known for a long time that the day would come when Jack would outgrow it, but I managed to talk him into leaving the skyscape on the ceiling for old time's sake. (He bought into my idea that his new teenaged room would feel like a "topless tiki hut.")

After a sneeze-inducing excavation of Jack's closet, we loaded the van with donated boxes and bags of old clothes headed for Goodwill. The Herculean feat was sorting through Jack's incredible toy collection. (From the number of complete Happy Meal sets, I think I now know where I picked up that extra thirty pounds over the past decade.) It was fun revisiting our old friends Arthur, the Berenstain Bears, Lowly Worm, Spiderman, Inspector Gadget, and Captain Underpants — in most cases deciding their sentimental value far exceeded whatever they might fetch on Ebay or the used bookstore. Side by side, Jack and I sorted, culled and stored, reuniting countless Lego sets and squeezing selected Beanie Babies into Ziplock bags. I pulled an Eric Carle print from its hiding place behind the shoe bag, taking momentary delight before having to drop it into the trash. We dumped the best of the Hot Wheels cars into plastic boxes and dressed up the bed with a preppy plaid comforter from the Back-To-College section of Target.

I didn't have the heart to find a new home for Jack's tiny Batman costume, the one he wore nearly daily when he was four; it's still folded and sitting in my room. I walk by it every day and wonder what it will be like the next time Jack's room gets a major makeover. Where will he be living? When we moved here, Jack wasn't even a idea. Now he's shaving. How can this be?

In exactly two years, Kate will leave for college. What am I going to do the 70-plus My Little Ponys that live in the plastic trunk in her closet? (Right now I'm imagining a Whatever Happened to Baby Jane scene: Me sitting in the middle of the pastel herd, combing their pink plastic manes with a tiny brush, swigging wine straight from the bottle, mascara streaming down my face.)

I love my teenagers, and this time in their lives. They're smart, funny, capable and full of possiblities — but still a work in progress. I really don't miss those sweet fuzzy headed baby and toddler days, although I enjoyed that time to the fullest. I loved every minute — the six continuous years of diapers, the spit up, the sleep deprivation, the endless ear infections. (Ironically, now we have three dearly loved dogs to take care of the pooping, peeing and throwing up.)

Parenting is like a roller coaster. You wait a long time to get on and there's no getting off once you're on the ride. Safety is a huge concern, there are enormous highs and lows and twists, and once the ride rolls to a stop all you can say is, "That's it? But it was so short!"

You're Not Gonna Like It, George —

2006-08-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

One of my work buddies and I entertain ourselves from time to time by quoting from the movie It's a Wonderful Life. (Okay, so Mark and I are easily amused.) A favorite line is "Say, brainless!" as in "Say, brainless, don't you know where coconuts come from?" We are also fond of "Help you down?!"

But there was one line in that film that I never understood. When Jimmy Stewart's character George Bailey is freaked out over the scenario of his never having been born, he demands that his guardian angel Clarence to tell him where his wife Mary (the always radiant Donna Reed) is. George has to get physically abusive with Clarence before he finally spills the beans.

In a defeated, cracking voice, Clarence cries,

"You're not gonna like it, George. She's at the...LIBRARY! She's an old maid, she never married."

As a kid, I was always offended by this. Mary was wearing glasses and sensible shoes, serving the public in an honorable profession. Even better, she was unsullied by that sleazy Sam Wainwright. George should have been thrilled.

What the heck is wrong with the library? I used to think. Libraries are among my favorite places in the world!

I can still smell the musty interior of the Bookmobile forty years after choosing my first Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book. In elementary school my mother would leave me at the public library for hours while she ran errands. (Yeah, that was how it was back then, when people thought the word "pedophile" referred to someone who liked bicycling.)

It was during one of these afternoons I had a little coming-of-age moment, accidentally stumbling upon my first book of adult fiction. I had plowed through all the horse books by Walter Farley and worked my way beyond the Young Adult section to a novel about a pimp (an actual pimp, mind you, this is the generation before "gansta" culture) entitled — I kid you not — Nothing Black But A Cadillac. My cheeks flamed as I devoured the saucy parts and I thought, "Dear heavens, I wonder if the library knows they have a filthy book in here?!" (Out of curiosity, I recently Googled this title, and discovered you can buy a used copy of this tawdry Raymond Spence classic from Amazon.com for as little as 47 cents!)

Now I work less than fifty paces from my alma mater's library, and the lure is just too great to stay away. Oversized chairs and current periodicals call to me. Obscure cast recordings wait for me to whisk them away and share them through the miracle of iTunes. (Who would ever have thought one could find Gilbert & Sullivan in karaoke?) And art-house films on DVD, all free of charge and without late fees, are mine for the taking. (For one week; two if I extend.)

I love libraries of any size; along with museums, they are my churches— quiet sanctuaries of creativity. All those words, thoughts, and pictures enshrined in a place of hushed reverence, just waiting to be discovered. A visit to New York City is never complete without a good walk up the steps of the public library to say hello to the enormous stone lions. But I always like to see what kind of libraries the pokey little towns and suburbs of my home state offer. I think I have been to every public library within a thirty mile radius of my house.

Back to It's a Wonderful Life: years later I finally figured out that it was the fact that Mary was a spinster that devalued her in society's eyes, not the point that she spent all her time in the stacks. Still, every time I enter a library, I like to hear Clarence's exclamation in my head, the phrase my co-workers exchange when I occasionally vanish from my desk:

She's at the library!

Friendship Stew

2006-08-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

I had lunch with my dearest pal Robin today. Her old college boyfriend Bryan was in town and wanted to do some visiting laced with business about a book he'd written. So I brought my editor from work, promising Nancy at least one hour of laughs and some very interesting conversation. What ensued reminded me of the old childhood fable Stone Soup, where the main character starts out with only a stone and a bit of broth. Smatterings of this and that are added progressively until the end result is a delicious, somewhat complex soup.

Not that lunch with Robin is anything but rich — she is always a delight, worth dropping work projects anytime I'm lucky enough to hear from her. But today went from being a quick "let's do lunch" into a full-fledged surprise reunion party.

Out of the blue, Robin's parents wanted to meet us. So did her teenaged son, Max. Bryan, sort of the guest of honor, was driven to lunch by another college friend I hadn't seen in 20 years. "The Other Robin"— beautiful Robin A.— popped in with her wonderful beau and teenaged son. Another beauty of our college tribe, Trish, drove from 35 miles away, followed soonafter by her brother. Every five minutes there was another arrival, more delighted screams, and more loud, happy conversation about the things that connected all of us over the past 30 years.

Like the soup made from a stone, today's lunch was an unexpected and very satisfying treat.

I'm Melllllllting!

2006-08-20T21:52:00.000-07:00

I know it seems I only come here to my little blog spot to complain about the heat, but we are far beyond the dehydrating water bra stage now. My beloved front yard magnolia tree, the one that gave us a single white bloom the day we brought Kate home from the hospital, has turned a sickly shade of greenish-yellow. Living things are just not designed to withstand thirty consecutive daily doses of 103-plus temperatures.

Dave has gotten his marriage-long wish. I have been forced by this ceaseless bakefest coupled with my pink-faced entrance to pre-menopause to give up wearing my flannel pajamas. The ones decorated with merry sock monkeys and bright snow domes. The black polka dotted ones that made my husband brighten hopefully when I told him I'd brought home something black and fun from Victoria's Secret, only to have his face fall when I slipped into these Ralph Cramden specials. Yes, the nights of thick, comfy flannel are no more.

I'm sure Dave will find me equally fetching in his ratty old tee shirts.

Whew. Ovaries shutting down now. Apologies to my male readers. Tracy out!

This Also Just In

2006-07-28T20:56:00.000-07:00

Rejoice, stamp nerds, theater geeks and gay gentlemen: The Judy Garland stamps are here. They're self-adhesive and waiting for you at your local post office!

This Just In

2006-07-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

Updates to previous entries:

Rex the female Border Collie got her manly moniker because my cowboy neighbor Jeff bought her at such a tender age, they couldn't quite tell her gender. They thought she was a male. So much for the biology smarts you learn on a farm.

The Mystery of the TP Incident is revealed! The perpetrators were Kate's friends: Mindy, a recent grad who is soon off to college to major in music and little Jon from Kindergarten, now the social chairman of the high school choir. Who would have thought choristers could be so naughty and out so late? And throw so well — little white bits are STILL escaping from the highest branches.

Newsflash:

Kate is suddenly really into the Rocky Horror Picture Show. But it really annoys her that I already know each and every word. Ha, young one. Tim Curry is mine, and I have the age spots to prove it!

Saving David

2006-07-25T11:16:00.000-07:00

Perhaps out of habit, I never delete a voice mail from my husband.

When Dave was deployed to Iraq the year before last, our communiciations were pretty sketchy at best. We were fortunate to get a static-filled overseas phone call from him about once a week. I knew that in order for him to call me, he had likely hiked nearly a mile in the 100-plus desert heat and stood in line an MWR tent (that's the department of Morale/Welfare/Recreation; the Army does love its acronyms!) for the chance to spend 15 timed minutes at a working — or, sometimes working — telephone.

I hated missing his calls, but it frequently happened. He'd leave a tired but cheery message on my work or cell phone, attempting to sound like he was just calling from the corner market.

The hard, cold truth was, I was so afraid that in case the unthinkable happened, this fuzzy bit of digital connection might be the last piece of interchange between us. With a silent prayer, I would hit the "save" button to preserve my own little audio greeting card. I've always loved David's vocal quality, with his deep laugh; I think it's one of his very best features. I would save the messages so I could listen to them again and again, privately, just to hear the sound of his voice.

A year and a half later after he's safely home, I still do that.

Blue Sky Reflection

2006-07-14T18:58:00.000-07:00

Another broiling Texas day. Just before dark, I was out having my "hose time" where I stand reviving the wilting flowers with my thumb squishing the water coming out of the hose, my mind idling in neutral. I noticed a puddle of water on the sidewalk, and on its surface was the reflection of the sky above. I had a sudden flashback to when I was about 4 or 5 years old, before I could read.

When I was small, the reflecting puddles in our driveway after a rain would fascinate me. I thought they looked like openings to heaven — magical secret gateways from the boring old earthly world. I would stand at the edge of the shimmering portals with their enticing puffy white clouds and imagine myself jumping in, vanishing to another dimension. I would fantasize about making the leap, perhaps catching a ride on a unicorn. My parents would eventually realize I was missing, and then Rod Serling would appear, cigarette in hand, and tell them I had gone to a place called The Twlight Zone.

I loved peering into those inviting "heaven holes." I don't know why it took me another forty-some-odd years to notice them again. Surely they've been around this whole time.

Here's something else that happened today, while I'm on the subject of mid-life and flashbacks.

Half-watching The Today Show while getting ready for work, I heard one of my favorite Allman Brothers music riffs on a TV commercial. While Dickie Betts' guitar wailed the delicious opening notes of "Blue Sky", I looked up at the screen to see an attractive, grey-haired woman smile about the merits of a menopause medication.

What?

Like Travis Bickle in the film Taxi Driver, my brain twitched and sneered, "Are you talkin' to me?"

When did I fall into this demographic territory for Madison Avenue?

It's not that I'm unhappy about the Allmans "selling out." Having spent nearly half my life in an advertising career, I have no problem with ensnaring the attention and the money of John Q. Public by using a killer tune as bait. (I came to terms years ago that I was the woman in that old joke where the punch line is "Madam, we've established what you are, we're just haggling over price.")

But now the sensible shoe is on the other foot. While I would have been delighted and proud to have been the one who created this spot, I have decidedly mixed feelings about being its target.

Incidentally, ladies, isn't it funny that it's called MEN-o-pause?

And is it just me, or is it hot in here?

The Country Dog and the City Dog

2006-06-16T07:43:00.000-07:00

Our neighbors' black and white border collie escaped from their yard last week and came over to visit. After letting all the dogs enjoy a good chat (a delighted exchange of butt-sniffing), I slapped a leash on Rex and took her back across the street.

"Thanks, Tracy," Jeff said. "You can let her go now."

Jeff is a real live cowboy, from Wyoming or Montana or one of those faraway cowboy states. He teaches horseback riding at his house on Saturdays. He and his family rented the property across the street from us while he finishes grad school. When I returned Rex to her cowboy owner, I realized that there are two kinds of border collie people.

Dave and I are the pretend kind. Jeff is the real kind.

Jeff gave a command to Rex by emitting a series of short, shrill whistles, which made her snap to attention, cock her head at her master, then quickly leap into the back of his pickup truck as if by magic.

When I need our dogs to come out of the pasture and back into our house (so that I may leave them for hours to nap on the furniture, watch television and root through the trash) I don't call them, rather, I negotiate with them, shrieking like a crazed auctioneer:

"Hey pooches! Alllllieeee! Seannnnn-y! C'mon, let's guh-oh! Yes, I mean you! I need y'all in the HOUSE! Who wants a GOODIE? Or maybe a CHEWIE? Wouldn't that be fun? CHEWIE GOODIE CHEWIE GOODIE!!! Yessssssss! HOUSE!"

I know this is way too much verbiage, even for a small child, and certainly for an uber-brainy border collie. This technique is probably the textbook example of how not to call a child or a dog, to say nothing of my use of food bribery. Our neighbors must think we have dogs named "Goodie" and "Chewie."

Serious border collie owners always name their animals one-syllable names, like "Rex," "Fly," or "Kit." I call the neighbors' dog "Rex Anne" behind Jeff's back. I mean, she's a girl, for heaven's sake. I guess we messed up with our two: "Sean Connery" and "Allie."

BCs are working farm dogs. But I think somehow we have made a nice compromised life for our suburban pets. They get to "herd" our pony twice a day, and are only a chain-link fence away from 20 head of sheep. Not such a bad life for dogs who live to group livestock, though it's sometimes really annoying to the pony.

Rex Anne — I mean, Rex — has never seen the inside of a house. And yet she seems perfectly happy. But when I see our beloved poser dogs asleep on their backs, sprawled atop the Ralph Lauren comforter with their fur swaying in the ceiling fan's breeze, I don't feel too guilty about all of us not being the real deal.

Texas is Not For Sissies

2006-06-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

Don't read this if you're easily grossed out.

I checked Jack into band camp today, a process which robbed my life span of several hours and left me with what Kate refers to as my "pink ham face." I stood in line for about at least an hour with 350 other exhausted and confused parents. When I pulled my sunglasses down from the top of my hairdo where they were jauntily perched, the lower half of the lenses were beaded with sweat. And I was inside the building at the time.

It was so @#$*ing hot today, I swear my water bra dehydrated down a whole cup size. Not kidding.

And don't try to blame it on pre-menopause. Texas is HELL!

I Heart New York

2006-06-09T21:46:00.000-07:00

Kate and I just returned from a short trip to New York. I love going there, but I'm always happy to get home.

Favorite things about New York: The weather, the architecture, the history, the amazing way the city works, Lincoln Center, any and all theaters, Central Park, Grand Central, the wooden escalators in Macy's, 30 Rock, St. Pats, cheap flowers, iced coffee, musicians hurrying to gigs, the library's lion statues, Jews in black hats, Japanese tourists, and the scarcity of blondes.

Least favorite things: The smell, the endless grey, winos begging on corners, the lack of light, the noise (mostly honking and jackhammers), subway stress, bitter looking people, the barrage of grime that spits down on you from the skyscrapers.

Things I love when I get home to Texas: Green grass, lawns, square footage, driving all over, huge grocery stores, cheap shopping, happy dogs that don't live on concrete, and Tex-Mex.

Things that are hard to come home to: Nothing, except for the ceaseless 100 degree oven-like heat, the cloudless sky, the wilting flowers and broiling car interiors.

I saw a little sign years ago in a Hill Country shop: "Texas is not for amateurs."

I've always thought New York was the same way. Forget the Manolo Blahniks you're seen on Sex and the City. Comfy shoes are a must. I think we walked about twenty miles just this morning.

Kate was delighted to walk through a beautifully green, misty Central Park and sight a rat (which I mistook for a squirrel with a straightened, fur-less tail) and two well-dressed men kissing.

At one point during yesterday's rush hour we were walking across a busy street in Midtown Manhattan. An ancient, stooped woman with a dowager's hump minced alone beside us, clutching her cane. Becoming impatient with the traffic, she suddenly started talking to the cars:

"Gow, gow if you're gowing, ya bastids! Son of a bitch."

It was our favorite New York moment.

There Goes the Neighborhood

2006-06-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

I was out watering flower beds this morning when I noticed our city police directing traffic at our corner of the quiet suburb where we live. Cars started lining up to park in front of my house and my neighbor's. Then I realized that this was Open House day for the multi-million spec house a two-year-long project that was built across the road from us.

Three small, older houses were razed and their acreage reorganized in order to build this monstrous McMansion, one of two in the neighborhood. A fourth homeowner whose husband was transferred to Houston was also given an offer, but she tearfully sold her house to a friend at a loss rather than have it bulldozed. I have to admire her for that.

There are mixed feelings about the swankification (a nod to Wicked's Stephen Schwartz for that word) of our block. Will the new neighbors mingle with the rest of us at the annual holiday covered dish? Will they turn up their noses if we take them squash and tomatoes from our gardens? Assuming, of course, that any of us ever make it past the electronic guard gate. Will they hit a panic button direct to Animal Control when our livestock escape and graze their professionally landscaped entrance?

Kate votes "no" on the question of mixing with the rest of the block, saying we'll never get to know the new family (or families, or cult, or syndicated world domination society since the place is almost more of a compound than a house. I mean, the mailbox is encased in a ten-foot-tall brick tower). But I prefer to think things will be fine. Living in this community for years has shown me that the Haves and the Have-Nots have a lot more in common than one would think. I reminded Kate that her classmate since kindergarten whose dad is a famous (and somewhat infamous, since last year's steroid hubbub) professional baseball player got his childhood chicken pox and head lice at the same time everyone else did.

Still, I had wonder what sort of family would want to live in a house like that, in an area like ours, where carports and goat barns dot of the landscape.

As I stood in my cutoffs spraying the wilting zinnias, I squinted and mentally pre-qualified the house-hunting visitors.

Gawkers, I thought of the couple that climbed out of their dusty Dooley truck, followed by three elementary aged moppets in matching Wal-Mart denim.

Ah, here we go, I thought, eyeing the grey-at-the temples fifty-something emerging from a shining Lexus to open the door for his young(er) blond(ish) wife. She tottered down our crummy little asphalt street on Jimmy Choo stilettos, her highlighted mane of hair perfectly arranged atop her overly perky and obviously medically enhanced chest.

No one seemed to notice me as they all excitedly formed a herd of humanity to the open gates which, I might add, look something like the entrance to Paramount Pictures. I felt like an oversized garden gnome or kitschy pink flamingo (both things I adore, by the way), a little out of place in my own universe.

Several dozen more couples and families made their way to the open house, their cars lining the street. I had seen the floor plan and amenities sheet months ago after David filched one from the realtor's sign case. I knew that the visitors would ooh and ahh over over Italian granite countertops, a five car garage, and a computerized sprinkler system.

I became aware of my aching, wrinkling wet thumb plugging the plastic hose and thought, happily, to myself: this is all the sprinkler system you really need.

Morning paper

2006-06-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

Here's what your Saturday morning looks like when your yard has mature trees and your kids have immature friends.

I should have gotten up at 2 a.m. and looked out the window instead of merely mumbling at the dogs to "quit barking at the neighbor's damn cat."

Hmmm. A mystery. Whomever did this had a terrific throwing arm, I discovered when I had to blast the garden hose thirty feet high to coax the paper streamers into dropping down like dead snakes. So that would rule out a good portion of Kate's theater and choir pals.

The culprit(s) spared no expense, using at least eight double rolls of Ultra Premium Charmin. I marvelled at its cushy softness and am considering switching brands. Darn upscale kids.

But who? Most of Kate's friends have access to cars but few have the gumption to break curfew.

Secretly, I'm a little pleased to know that high school kids haven't changed much in thirty years, and that Kate is enough of a blip on the social radar to warrant this bit of deliquent attention. The TP actually looked kind of festive swaying in the morning breeze. There are still vestiges of unreachable white fluff lingering, which should come down with the next good rain.

In our part of the Lone Star state, that should be by about October.

Maybe by then the mystery will be solved.

Quote of the Day

2006-05-29T21:38:00.000-07:00

"Ma'am, we carry fart machines and exploding devices. A little shrieking monkey noise isn't going to bother us in the least."
Sales associate at the Olde Thyme Fun Shop in Fredricksburg, Texas, after I admonished my son for setting off his loud toy monkey in the tiny store

We just returned from our annual long weekend to the Hill Country. Jack and his buddy Michael were awarded ten dollars each to spend as they wished at the joke and novelty store if they could make the five-hour car trip without (1) passing wind or making fart sounds, or (2)making fart jokes or even saying the word "fart." This is kind of like paying poppy farmers not to produce opium. I know it's slightly wrong, but it worked wonderfully. The back windows on our van don't roll down, so I had to do something!

More later on our magical weekend.

Welcome to Crazy Town

2006-05-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

Shoot, what was that movie where someone translated something for someone, and I think the line was "she's the MAYOR of Crazytown?" I'll remember in a minute. The hard drive that is my brain is full. If only one could buy more disk space for the human brain!

Kate has been going out with a very nice young man for over six months now, and tonight was the first night he really had a chance to hang out (God help him) with our entire family. (Except my dad, of course, who chose, perhaps not unwisely, televised sports over the annual voice and piano recital.) So Braeden got the full family treatment tonight, both barrels, meaning both grandmas, after giving up three hours of his life sitting through Kate's recital and then heading to our house for dinner.

Within minutes of coming by the house for pizza and leftover birthday cake, my mom talked at the poor young man in torrents. Mom is in extra perky spirits these days, having gotten through the worst of her horrible chemotherapy. When I heard the cheery words, "They just stick a needle in my port, here — look!" I rushed through the kitchen to find Mom pulling her shirt collar down and sideways to reveal the hideous blue device surgically implanted under her thin skin to a very perplexed looking 16-year-old boy.

"Mom! Put that away! People are about to eat food!" I scolded, yanking her collar back into place.

"Well, of course he's interested in seeing this. The boy wants to be a doctor!" Mom answered.

"No, Mom, he doesn't," I hissed. "That was the last boyfriend. This one wants to be a choir director. Stop showing people your body parts!"

"Oh." Mom blinked in temporary confusion and just a flicker of remorse. She excitedly went on to fill the next hour with Embarrassing Stories, Part I, including:

- The Story of Baby Kate Who Looked Like Buddha at Birth Because Her Mom Ate So Many Little Debbie Products

- The Saga of Kate's Mom Tracy the Meanest Scrabble Player Ever (my own child chimed in on this one to recount the time I dumped the board after being taunted by my mother; by "mean" I mean both skilled and nasty)

- A Ribald Tale of Kate's Uncle B.D., otherwise known as The 45-year-old Bachelor Airline Pilot with the Bartender Girlfriend

- The Complete History of Kate's Musical Theater Experiences

- The Obligatory Nosy Questions About Braeden's Birthplace and Family History (what Savannah folk like my mom call "the people" questions, as in "Honey, where are your people from?")

In this test, this horrible rite of passage, Braeden was a true champ, laughing in stride and conversing right back a few nutty stories of his own. And my daughter was wise enough not to kick her grandmother's shin beneath the table or bury her head in shame, having known my mother well enough to realize that reacting in any way would be like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. So while Kate rolled her eyes, Braeden laughed, contributed, and even shook my husband's hand on his way out, earning favorable scores from the entire family, including my mother-in-law, who broke her fixated gaze on the television to call him "Brandon" a second time.

So now it's all out there; the bizarre kinfolk have all come down from the attic. Braeden has now officially broken bread at our tiny vintage kitchen table, been sniffed and drooled upon by all three dogs, and been interrogated by the tribal elders. His girlfriend's loudly chattering, slightly off-kilter family has been thrust upon this poor young man; we've wrapped him our genetic crazy quilt and we can now get down to the business of being friends.

And I just remembered -- it was Sunny, the baby in the movie version of A Series of Unfortunate Events that says "she's the mayor of Crazy Town" in subtitles when referring to Meryl Streep's loony character Aunt Josephine.

Whew. I feel so relieved now.

More stuff I like

2006-04-29T07:37:00.000-07:00

For my devoted reading audience of three, these are a few of my newish favorite things (no warm woolen mittens or brown paper packages tied up with string):

Crystal Stick deodorant. My brother turned me on to this one. His darling hippie-chick girlfriend Adrienne (they are a perfect couple; he is an airline pilot, she is a bartender) recommended it. The Crystal, as we who are in the know call it, comes in lump or stick form but out here in the burbs, stick is the way we find it in the grocery or beauty supply stores. This thing looks like a tubular hunk of quartz, and David made me feel like a gullible marketing sucker when he explained to me that it's obviously factory-created and formed to look that way, as I thought perhaps it was mined from a quarry and sculpted just for me. Anyway, to use the Crystal stick you have to wet it slightly (no Lord of the Rings magic here, Jack discovered) and apply. Jack was the test subject. I figured any product that could work on a kid with a tendency to smell like a basket of onion rings left out in the sun would have my vote. When Onion Ring Boy became daisy fresh overnight, a Crystal appeared in every family member's cabinet. The only down side is that the rock-like form of Crystal makes it weigh considerably more than its competitors, so if you pack for a trip, it does feel like you stuck a rock in your overnight bag.

My other new favorite product is Gold Bond Ultimate Healing Lotion. I don't know why they even call it lotion, it's so thick you have you coax it out its bottle in lard-like, almost solid form. Since every trace of collagen my body once had has flown the coop, this stuff is a daily must!

Musical Postscript -- Kate and I love The Weepies. Their gentle folk harmonies are kind to the ear on a daily commute, and I just like to say their name.

You heard it here, folks. We'll return to Tracy's musings when we come back.

Found: my new favorite cyberspot

2006-04-27T18:36:00.000-07:00

Go to www.foundmagazine.com and be entertained. I especially like the piece that started it all, the "Mario" note. (Siobhan, I think this will be right up your alley.)

I have a new favorite music diversion as well: the Ditty Bops. Cute tunes for those dreary days when the show tunes have worn thin.

More to come.

Winning isn't everything, but it sure is fun

2006-04-17T20:51:00.000-07:00

I am so mad at our local paper. They have made me a loser. A loser!

I was a loser in the Star Telegram's "Beaster Bonnet" contest. Readers were asked to send in cute photos of their pets wearing homemade Easter hats. Well, all rightey. I was certain that my design/photo skills combined with my extra adorable dogs would make me a shoo-in for selection. In fact, it probably shouldn't be fair that I even enter, being a professional art person and all.

But of course I would enter.

Saturday afternoon found me picking through acres and acres of chenille chicks and silk flowers at the local Hobby Lobby. After spending about 25 bucks and an hour of hot-gluing half the gross national product of China to my custom built dog-sized caps I was ready to shoot. Allie was more than willing to model, and even though Charlie looked like he was humiliated beyond belief, he didn't move when I crowned him with his silly hat.

Using the trusty Nikon digital SLR I got for Christmas, I snapped a few dozen images, winnowed them down to four, PhotoShopped, cropped and sized until I had what I thought was the perfect folio of cuteness and cleverness. I proudly emailed my entries a full three days before the deadline, and then shared them electronically with friends and coworkers so that when Easter morning arrived, they would all open their papers and exclaim, "Look! That's Tracy's dog!" or, "Oh my gosh, aren't both of these Tracy's dogs? I don't know which is cuter! And just look at those hats!"

Why did this matter to me? There wasn't even a prize offered. Why would a 47-year-old person with a busy, full life get up at sunrise on Easter morning and run out to fetch the newspaper as though it were a basket of cash left by the Big Bunny himself?

Hey, I thought as I flipped the colored pages, which contained several dozen photos of animals in hats. Where are my photos? Where are my precious pets in clever hats? What could have happened? Okay, some of these are cute. For amateurs. This one's not that great. Yuck, too much flash on this one. Oh, jeez, the dog is so black, there's no detail. Hmmm. Mine. Aren't. In. Here. Damn. I dejectedly went back to bad, scowling at the now-useless canine chapeau on the dresser.

Later, over coffee, Dave laughed warmly over the cover winner, a bug-eyed chihuahua in a mini Minnie Pearl number. "Awww! Did you see this? he asked.

"Yeah, I saw it," I growled, downing my coffee in one violent gulp like a frat boy with 50-cent beer. "A chihuahua is such a cheap laugh."

Dave either pretended not to know I was surly or wasn't concerned.

"Hey, Kate! my traitor husband yelled cheerily to our sleepy daughter. "You gotta see some of these pictures!"He was chortling. Chortling!

How could he flaunt his enjoyment so brazenly? How could my own spouse be so cavalier about my defeat?

My darling hubby and I have a great many things in common, but not this: I married the nicest, most laid back guy on the planet. Dave has the rare ability to play a game just for the enjoyment and fellowship. He doesn't enter contests from magazines, newspapers or the radio. He has no need to one-up anyone, or prove himself to anyone else. He has no need to be famous or call any attention to himself.

I, on the other hand, love to enter and love to win. The phrase, "Many will enter, few will win," isn't daunting to me at all. I'm in.

I readily admit that I'm competitive. Which sadly extends to that toxic byproduct of competiveness, being a Bad Sport. There, I said it.

But I'm working on it. I really am. When I have more time I'll post the story of why Dave and I have never been invited back to play Trivial Pursuit at a certain couple's home.

But for right now, I'd like to get some mileage out of my recent competitive efforts. I'm just looking for a bit of love. So please humor me when I post my LOSING photos!

The writing on the wall, and other places

2006-04-16T21:38:00.000-07:00

It must have been obvious to my parents by the time I was in second grade that I was destined to become a graphic designer. I emphatically asked my mother to please NOT write my name on my paper lunch sacks any longer.

I privately cringed whenever I viewed my mom's slanted scrawl. Proud of my own newfound meticulous penmanship, I hated the way Mom would hastily scratch out my name with a cheap 19 cent Bic blue ballpoint and then go over each letter several times in a feeble attempt to create a heavier line (juicy, evocative Sharpies were not household items in those days). Sure, I was an overly precocious child, but I remember thinking that a Rhesus monkey had a better hand that my mother. What had happened? My grandmother and great aunts had beautiful handwriting; swirling, fanciful curliques and swooping, parallel, ordered letters graced their postcards and the family bibles. Mom's sub-par handwriting wasn't a problem as far as she was concerned, but her smart-ass little seven-year-old was, so she shrugged and continued to torment me with her tiny, bent letters, beating me to the chance to personalize my thermos, Girl Scout sit-upon, and dance shoe bag.

Over the years, Mom would finally admit that when it came to good looking penmanship, she was sorely lacking, so she would ask my neat-nic dad or me to put the finishing touch on notes or inscriptions of importance to the family.

It's been at least forty years since I informed my mother of my wish to personalize items in my own hand. Today was Easter Sunday, and as tradition dictated, my family gathered around my mom's huge formal dinner table for the annual holiday feast. But this year was very different; this would be the first family holiday dinner since Mom's cancer diagnosis just after Christmas.

What Mom lacks in handwriting talent she more than makes up for with her amazing culinary gifts. Even wracked with fatique and nausea from chemotherapy, she managed to put together an only slightly abbreviated version of one of her usual holiday food extravaganzas: Honey ham with pecan praline mustard sauce; chilled asparagus with sea salt, sesame and hollandaise; curried deviled eggs; scalloped potatoes; buttered, grilled sourdough; and various stuffings, vegetables, salads and desserts. We had all begged Mom not to trouble herself, but she was insistant. Looking more gaunt and worn than I have ever seen her, she feebly managed to get through dinner, nibbling not more than two bites of food. Chemotherapy has robbed her of so much more than her hair, her pink cheeks and energy. She can no longer stand the smell or taste of anything edible, the cruelest blow imaginable to a woman who takes such joy in creating extraordinary meals for the people she loves. As I helped her stir the sauces, my heart broke to see her season and taste one of her trademark dishes and then discreetly spit it out into the kitchen sink.

To lift everyone's spirits after dinner we decided to watch old Easter videos of the kids, both now teenagers and too old to do anything involving Easter eggs. Mom slumped in her chair while we laughed and wiped our eyes watching year after year of Kate and Jack in their pastel colored sissy suits taunting each other in competitive egg hunting.

As I packed up our things to return home, I saw the envelope to Jack's birthday card (he turned thirteen yesterday), left behind on the counter. I studied my mother's shaky writing, still done in cheap ballpoint: Jack's name, in wobbly cursive, surounded by two poorly placed, childish hearts. I stared at the envelope for a moment before putting the treasure in my purse to be enjoyed later.

Mom's writing has never looked so beautiful.

It's a dog's life. For us, anyway.

2006-04-02T08:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my beautiful neighbor Tina dropped by to inquire about Kate doing some summer babysitting for her two beautiful children, beautifully named Peyton and Miles. (Peyton's the girl. I am not making these names up.)

Because we have three very excitable dogs, my normal method of answering the front door is much like the mustachioed Emerald City doorman in the film version of The Wizard of Oz. The one who screeches, "Who rang that bell?" I open the door just enough to accommodate the upper portion of my face, while using one hand and one foot to keep the frenzy of furiously barking canines at bay. Since Tina is a bona fide "dog person" — the owner of one very large Chesapeake Bay retriever, she is granted admittance to the dogs' frenzied "hello dance" involving plenty of leaping up/getting underfoot/crotch sniffing. I kick, pull and restrain wriggling dog bodies from my guest and usher her to the tattered couch surrounded by swirling eddies of multi-colored dog hair. After a few minutes the dogs finally settle down from their greeting ritual.

Whew, I think, we made it. If our home was the theme of a video game, this would be the toughest portal to get through.

"Oh, did you guys stain your concrete floor?" Tina asks politely.

I use my foot to clear away a cleanish spot. "Yeah, we had to. The carpet was becoming a simmering sachet of dog, um, smell."

Even though I know Beautiful Tina has two small children and a dog the size of a pony, I suddenly become painfully aware that virtually everything within sight has been altered in some way by our destructive trio of pooches. The Oriental screen concealing the computer is patched with several shades of mismatched paper, the result of having been knocked over a dozen times during indoor dog recreation. Even Kate notices this. She sticks a finger through a hole in the screen. "Aren't dogs great?" she grins.

Sweet, perfect Tina surveys the hedge-like border of wet nose smears on the front bay window and the loose lower panes dangling from duct tape. She kindly shifts in her seat to cover the chewed corner of a throw pillow. "Oh, yeah, we know. Nothing you can do about it. Until they D-I-E," she laughs.

DIE? What?

I haven't spent much time thinking about the demise of my four-legged family members, I'm so busy cursing them for ruining my once-cute house. As crazy as Charlie, Allie and Sean Connery make me, as much as they steal countless ongoing hours from my life as I attempt to clean and repair our home, I cannot imagine a life without them. I fast forward in my mind to scenes of nearly blind, toothless, even more flatulent versions of our overly energetic housemates. Wow. This is as good as it gets, I realize. I vow to enjoy them a bit more in the here and now.

I am reminded of another friend, Julie. Every night, she and her husband Paul would hoist their aged 140-pound walrus of a Labrador upstairs to let her sleep in their room, and hand carry her down again in the morning. They did this for the last year of that dog's life, Julie told me tearfully.

Why do we love our dogs so much? I often joke that dogs are the best actors on the planet. Watch a dog's expression as you hold a piece of food. Every muscle on that dog's face will work together to create the most heartbreaking look worthly of an Oscar. Russell Crowe has nothing on a dog watching you eat a corn dog.

Dogs are also the only animal that smiles with the back end. That tail is a emotion-meter that can wag furiously with delight, twitch tentatively with hope, or tuck forlornly between the legs in utter shame. And dogs are the only beasts capable of immediate grace and forgiveness. Step on a dog's foot by accident and he will instantly swish his amazing communication device of a tail to let you know, "I'm alright! It's okay. Don't worry about it." Try that with a cat, cat people!

Last night Kate and I watched late movies from the couch. Sean was curled asleep on his back in his favorite oversized chair, his hind legs akimbo in the air, his pink tongue sticking out slightly.

"Awww, Mom, look. He's smiling." Kate whispered like a proud parent hovering over a crib.

Indeed.

Ice ice, baby

2006-02-24T22:07:00.000-08:00

Thank God the Olympics are over. Ice skating events are ruining my marriage.

My fascination with Olympic skaters has been as bad for my love life than the flannel sock monkey pajamas. The minute I hear commentator Dick Button's smug tones ("Very unattractive free leg!") mixed with classical standards streaming over a PA system, I drop whatever I'm doing to park myself before the television, and I don't move until I see three tearful, sequined skaters standing on their plastic guards on a podium. (That's why it's been days since my last blog entry.) I can't get enough ice skating.

Is it a girl thing? I think so. The menfolk in the family only spent about five minutes taking in the ice events. That was the night the Russian chick in the white fringed pasties came out looking like she would have been more at home going around a pole than a rink. After a few lewd comments suggesting names for some of the more provocative skating moves, my son Beavis and my husband Butthead busied themselves with other manly things.

Every night this week has been pretty much the same. Sometime after 10p.m. David mutters a grumpy goodnight and wearily kisses me on the head while I remain transfixed by the bugle-beaded, lacquered ponytailed skaters. I adored the swan hand puppet outfit worn by lighter-than-air Johnny Weir, who I pray won't be jumped and beaten by some beefy hockey players for his arrogant prancing. I admire everything about these people: their mega-thighs, their blur spins, the sheer lycra fabric panels holding their Vera Wang costume pieces together.

I thought the events were over yesterday, but nooooo — tonight was the greatest event of all: a gala of champions with ALL the skaters showing off their strength and artistry without the competitive pressure of having to land a triple salchow/triple toe-loop-combination followed by a triple lutz. And all in a shimmering array of never-before-seen scanty costumes! And while my snoring husband — who I have scarely seen for nearly a week — sleeps, I catch up on another guilty pleasure, writing in this blog.

Time for goodnight. Let the other games begin!

Lady sings the blues, sort of

2006-02-24T19:04:00.000-08:00

Sing like Billie Holliday!

It's easier than you think.

After giggling hysterically at a recording of writer David Sedaris doing an amazing imitation of Lady Day herself, I wondered just how tricky it might be to create such a sound. I mean, Ms. Holliday's vocal quality bears an uncanny resemblance to Grover on Sesame Street, if you listen very closely. So earlier tonight, while stuck in crawling traffic along I-35 on my rainy commute home, I had nothing better to do than try it, if only for my own amusement. After about ten minutes I figured out how to get my voice on a little spot just between the back of my throat and the nasal passages. It worked! I cracked myself up. I hadn't had so much vocal fun since taking Kate to an audition for The Miracle Worker.

A few years ago, Kate was asked to audition for the role of Helen Keller in a local college production. The deal breaker was being able to make young Helen's hideous, guttural, primal vocal sound. (Who'd have though landing the part of Helen Keller would require a kid to nail one syllable?)

"Arghhhhhhh!" said my talented child.

"Mmmm, not quite there, dear," the prim, bearded director told her. "More from the chest, I think. Lower, with more bass."

"Urggggggggggg," said Kate, like a tiny Frankenstein.

"Hmmm. Not quite what I'm thinking, but that's very good."

Actually, poor Kate lost this part not because she couldn't vocalize like a deaf girl, but because although she was petite at 12, there was a new pipsqueak in town. Sadly, Kate was too big. The actress who had already been cast as Anne Sullivan came into the audition for the stage combat portion of the tryout. This woman was barely five feet tall in heels. She and Kate were asked to recreate the famous breakfast table incident, in which Helen is forced to eat her overturned scrambled eggs from the floor while being restrained by her new teacher.

Director to Kate: "Give me a real effort, sweetheart. Feel free to give Anne a true struggle. Let's see some anguish, no holds barred. And go —"

Well, Kate must have taken this to heart because she gave that adult actress something of a — well, an ass whooping. The scene ended with "Anne Sullivan" screaming "Yeeeeeoowwwww!," blinking back tears and massaging her wrist.

"That was amazing," she told Kate through clenched teeth, "but I think you broke my arm."

Anyway, after hearing the words "Thank you" in that lilting tone actors hear that means "Not this time," Kate wasn't in the best of moods as we drove home. Even at the tender age of 12, she had auditioned enough to know how to handle rejection, but on this occasion she seemed especially annoyed. The car was quiet.

"Nnnnnnnnngh," I said to myself, eyeing the road.

"What?"

"Nnnnnnnnngh. That's the sound Helen Keller makes. No vowels."

Kate's hands flew to her ears. "MOM! Oh my gosh, PLEASE stop making that sound!"

"It's kind of fun. Try it! Nnnnnghhhh..."

"MOMMMMMMM! NOO!"

To this day, if I ever want to make myself laugh and give my daughter a raving fit, all I have to do is make The Helen Keller Sound and she will do anything to get me to stop.

So tonight when I tried out my new Billie Holliday voice, the reaction was much the same.

"Straaaaange fruit...mmm mmm..."

"OH MY GOD, MOMMMMMM! That's even worse than your stupid Helen Keller sound!"

Who says it's hard to get a teenager's attention?

Mouth of babes

2006-02-19T17:57:00.001-08:00

Today I helped with the 3-year-old Sunday School class at our church. The only reason I did this was that my teenaged daughter — who adores and is adored by toddlers— wanted to help out and went to the head lady of the program. They allowed her to assist a teacher under the condition that I help too. So this morning Kate decided to skip her third-Sunday-of-the-month service obligation to attend her own youth group. Fine. I can handle a bunch of tiny hooligans, having had two of my own.

What my church calls "Sunday School" for this age group is actually a small, temporary penitentiary for a group of squirming little boys too spirited to sit nicely through a worship service. I suspect the main motivation for church attendance for the parents of these little twerps is to get a single hour's peace away from them. The wild card among them, the king of the tiny turds, is an exhausting child named Joshua.

Joshua is obviously very bright, but commands a huge amount of negative attention. After an hour that included breaking up several of Joshua's fights, wiping Joshua's dripping nose, arranging a little intervention with Joshua's parents who had to be summoned, diverting attention from Joshua's mantra, "tee-tee-poop-poop-butt-fart-fart-fart" and finally, pretending not to notice Joshua pleasuring himself on the corner of the Little Tykes work bench in a trance Paul Feig would call "the rope feeling," Joshua joined the little prayer circle on the floor. Five minutes before the end of class, after running out of victims to bully and finding no new audiences for his PG-13 material, he plopped into my lap to pray.

He squeezed his eyes closed and clasped his grubby little hands together.

"Dear Jesus, " he whined in a voice full of sweetness.

Aw, I thought. He leaned his head of curls against my sweater.

"Dear Jesus," he went on, "Pleeeeze help my sister Hannah."

How could it be that the little deliquent was so altruistic?

"Please help Hannah as she battles... the bad bugs... in her hair."

Ew.

Now it's my turn to pray.

Pants on fire

2006-02-16T19:44:00.000-08:00

Here is a little rant I threw this morning after a very uncharactistic night where I had over eight hours of sleep. (Trust me, it was an accident — I am a dyed-in-the-wool night owl and an avowed piddler.) The long winter's nap combined with my daily dose of caffeine and sugar fueled an energetic hissy fit at my office where I threw down today's newpaper in a snit. Over this (and I apologize if I seem high-handed here):

Radio Shack's CEO is under legal investigation for falsifying information on his resume. Dave Edmondson has been quoted as saying there were "clearly some misstatements" on his curriculum vitae. It seems he didn't get that degree he claimed to have received. In fact, he wasn't even close. In fact, the college didn't even offer the degree he "misstated" having. In fact, records show he was only at the college for less than a year.

Hmmm. I guess he was "mis-hired" and "mis-promoted."

Having spent a good portion of my adult life in the advertising business, I am no stranger to euphemisms. I have fluffed and puffed with the best of them. But let's call this "misstatement" what it is. A pre-schooler would call it a "story" or a "fib." But anyone over the age of five knows exactly what it is.

A lie. Plain and simple.

Or as my Georgia mama would say, "an out-and-out lie." A bald-faced lie. A blatant lie. Not a gross exaggeration. Or an embellishment.

As someone who works at a college, has a college degree, waited patiently for her future husband to finish college (another blog to come later, involving eight — count 'em — eight years of fraternity parties) and is faced with getting two children into college and will undoubtedly spend the next decade paying for college, I was just a little peeved at hearing that the head of a Fortune 500 company decided to just give himself a degree by sitting at a typewriter and creating a convincing work of fiction.

But the moral of this story, I suppose, is that if you're going to cross that line, eventually it's gonna come out. Just look at Martha Stewart.

Time wounds all heals. It's Karma. Kismet. JuJu.

I don't think Radio Shack should fire Mr. Edmondson.

But I think he would make a nice addition to their mailroom.

I'm not saying I've never told a lie. I have spared the tender feelings of many the mother of an ugly baby by oohing and aahing convincingly over their little squinty, blotchy, asymetrical-headed, simian-like offspring. I mean, that's the gentle sort of lie — the not-saying-what-you-really-think type of thing. But I pretty much gave up big full-out fabrications when I couldn't trick my mom into believing I hadn't eaten a corn dog and jelly donut for lunch in the junior high cafeteria.

So grow up, Mr. Ed. And own up.

And for heaven's sake, find a better word.

My foodie hubby

2006-02-13T23:33:00.000-08:00

Since Dave started spending his evenings with Rachael Ray and Emeril Lagasse, our mainstay dinner menus have definitely taken a turn for the more exotic. Tonight Dave put carmelized Vidalia onions sauteed in butter in the Three-Cheese Hamburger Helper.

It was quite good. I'm not normally such a fan of Hamburglar Helper. I think all the flavor varieties taste exactly the same with that salty, powdered sauce that's a cross between orange and grey. But thanks to Chef Daveed, I may become a convert. I liked this version much better than the HH Beef Stroganoff with Fennel.

Going postal

2006-02-13T22:28:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered I have something in common with one of my dear friends, Monette.

We are both stamp nerds.

Our husbands have been best friends since college, and Mo and I go back together well over 15 years. Upon discovering our shared obsession with philately, we howled with mirth, nodding our heads in understanding. We shrieked, we pointed at one another, and red wine sprayed from our laughing lips while our husbands stared us as though we were aliens.

"Do you wait in line and ask to see "the book?" I asked Mo, who is possibly the most detail-oriented human being I have ever known. (Mo is a petite and polished human resource expert in the banking industry. Her job is to go into firms who are "outsourcing" and lay the cards on the table for the unfortuate souls getting the axe. I have nicknamed Mo "the Prim Reaper.")

"Oh my gosh, yes!" Mo responded, knocking over her nine dollar glass of wine. I hadn't seen her this excited since the fourth season of Will and Grace was issued on DVD.

This realization leads to a spirited twenty-minute discussion of the joy we take in waiting in line at the post office (that right there should tell you we have a problem), and asking the clerk to show the book of new stamp designs. When the postal worker pulls the big flip book with plastic pages of gleaming stamp samples from behind the counter, I might as well be choosing diamond solitaires at Tiffany's, the way I ooh and aah as the pages are turned for me. Even when I know that standing behind me there are a dozen semi-pissed off people holding heavy packages, I'm sorry — I gotta see those stamps. ALL the pretty stamps!

Having been to a design conference where I met a lovely gentleman from California who is a graphic designer for the US Postal Service, I really linger over the designs now. I take an extra moment to appreciate the beauty of each tiny work of art, wondering if Carl may have created it.

"Is this one self-adhesive?" I'll ask. If the stamp is really lovely, I'll take the chance on paper-cutting my tongue and not think about that nasty, faux-mint flavored glue. Behind me, I know my package-holding haters are thinking, "Geez lady, stamps are stamps. Who gives a *bleep*? Why can't you use the vending machine stamps like everyone else? What's wrong with the good old American flag?"

Mo and decide that most of the world just doesn't understand the joy of finding the perfect stamp. Each of us can recall our personal favorites. Like the oversized lacemaking stamp I placed next to the traditional engraving of artist Mary Cassatt on my wedding invitations in 1988. I can't tell you the name of my wedding planner, but I could draw you a picture of those stamps. Or the Grant Wood painting for "Iowa" that sits in my drawer at work. It was so pretty, I just could't bear to use the last one. Of course, I'm not a serious stamp person, with books and first-issues and such. I just take a little time to admire and choose the little gems when I can.

"Do you hand pick which version of the stamp design you think would be most appreciated by the recipient?" I asked my friend.

"Every time," Mo assured me. "By the way, nice one on the Christmas card. It was my favorite of the four background colors."

"Thanks, honey, I loved yours too. The new Madonna was gorgeous this year."

I don't even mind when the postage rates go up. It means a whole new batch of designs, as exciting to me as the Paris fashions are to the fashionista.

It's probably only fitting that I have this thing for stamps, as I also am equally picky about the handwriting on the envelope. But that quirk is a whole other blog.

My dog is smarter than, well, just about anything

2006-02-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

I love our three dogs as though they are children, although owning them means a commitment to at least a decade of buying Febreze, deodorizing candles, antibacterial products of every format and about 2.3 extra hours of cleaning per week. Every few days, Dave and I can sweep or vacuum enough dog hair to create a wad roughly the size of a small dog. It also means that our vintage Ralph Lauren rug has had to be hosed down and machine washed twice in the past five days due to substances dispelled from each and every orifice of Sean Connery, our red border collie.

Despite his uber-sensitive, frequently backfiring digestive system, Sean is the family sweetheart, and bright in that kind of weird, quirky way typical of Border Collies. Sean is our listening dog. Every moment he is awake, his ears constantly swivel and pivot as though he is trying to pick up satellite signals from space. And he can spell. Sean lives for his twice-daily feedings, and is constantly tuned to hear anything resembling the happy sounds of "Who's hungry?," "Have the dogs been fed?,"or "Jack, did you F-E-E-D the D-O-Gs?" We can no longer casually utter ANY words that include the phonetic "ef" without Sean flying to the kitchen where he tap dances at his bowl, his tail swinging furiously while his licks his lips. If the food doesn't come right away, a puddle of drool will form at his feet, dripping from the cutest, most hopeful face you ever saw on a canine.

While I busy myself collecting the dog bowls to fill with expensive kibble, Sean's herding instincts kick in and he forms 1-3 large, perfect circles in our small kitchen, requiring him to trot under tables and chairs to maintain the neat roundness of the circle. We refer to these as his "Psycho-Circles" and out of respect for Sean's finely tuned mental state, the kids try to keep their backpacks and shoes clear from the path of this daily ritual. Usually Sean is satisfied with only one perfect loop, but on particularly stressful or hungry days, he makes up to three of the magic circles that he thinks will keep me on my feeding task.

Precisely half an hour after the meal (gobbled down in several huge, choking bites) Sean will tell me he must go outside by staring at me, then swiveling his head abruptly toward the door, as if to say, "Look, you inferior human, over THERE; the door, you idiot!" If this doesn't work right away, he adds a musical whine, much like the one Lassie used to do in the old TV series, when telling little Timmie that someone had fallen down a ravine and was lying unconscious in the dirt, with a rattlesnake coiled just inches away.

Anyhow, on the downside of living with such a crazy-brilliant animal, we've had to hide an extra key outside the house because Sean can work the dead bolt with his paw. He's locked us out three times.

If Sean had opposable thumbs, we might let him so take the SAT for Kate. But alas, he is a savant. Why can't he figure out that we don't enjoy his relieving himself on the Ralph Lauren rug?

What people with ADD think about at the symphony

2006-02-09T21:39:00.000-08:00

Tonight I took Jack and his best buddy Michael to a fantastic concert that forever sealed us in the Official Book of Nerds. The Music of Star Wars, complete with dancing Storm Troopers. A wonderful time.

I adore watching a live orchestra. Especially when so many of the musicians are so deadpan. My thoughts wander to so many things, like:

Wow. Look at all the variations of wood colors in the cellos. I like the reddish brown one best.

Who dusts way up there?

Are these light effects sequenced by computer, or are there some fleet-footed janitors madly running around flipping switches in the back room?

Is that a man or a woman? So hard to tell when everyone wears pants. Okay, now I see the huge earring. Well, still not sure.

Do these guys look down upon playing for the Pops series patrons? Do they feel like they're "slumming it?"

What kind of vehicle must you have to transport a bass or a harp?

200 years from now, will someone play the music of John Williams and introduce the show with "And here are some lovely pieces created for something called FILM?"

Wouldn't it be cool if I could play that little triangle as a guest artist?

I love live music. So much to think about!

Hole in the tent

2006-02-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

(Warning: this post contains sad stuff.)

My mom just called me at my office. She had no one to talk to because my dad is playing golf.

Over the past several weeks, Mom has undergone three surgeries for breast cancer. (God, I hate even typing that word. I'm like the character in the film Annie Hall that always whispers the name of ailments too horrible to say out loud.)

Anyway, the news is not good. Eight lymph nodes removed, all of them cancerous. Mom is more than a little freaked out and I'm writing this so that I can maintain my composure at my desk.

When people talk about a loss, they often liken it to a hole, or a void, or an empty space. I feel like there's a hole in my tent.

When I first learned of my mom's testing, I was driving home from work and I put my mind in neutral. I got a flashback of the summer I was nine years old, away at Girl Scout camp.

At camp, I loved the musty smell of the huge canvas tents we stayed in, huge shelters that became a cozy dormitory for eight little girls ready for the adventures of a four day sleepover. The canvas of the tent was so thick and heavy, it could hardly even be called fabric, designed to stave off whatever the extreme Texas weather could dish out. But the tents came with a warning issued by the leaders: Resist the urge to scratch the rough canvas with your poking little fidgety fingernails or you could make a hole. A horrid little hole that would compromise the integrity of the entire structure. Yes, one little hole followed by one good rain and you and your bunkmates would be in a world of trouble, because that huge waterlogged tent would come crashing down on the heads of any girls who made even the tiniest hole in the fabric.

So now I feel like my family has the dreaded little hole in our tent. And it just got bigger. It started out as a tiny pinprick, but the potential for devastation too huge to imagine is there, and we're all just holding our breath and waiting for it. And I just want the hole to get patched up so we can all get to back to having fun.

And I am praying that it's not going to rain.

Ah, youth

2006-02-08T21:51:00.000-08:00

Kate is packing to go on an overnight choir trip. This created some raised eyebrows from her father and some questions about chaperones. "Oh, stop that, Dave," I scolded. "Not every boy these days is like you were in high school." Kate's boyfriend will also be going on this choir trip and I am convinced this fine young man is a perfect gentleman. I can't say the same for my testosterone charged, still-acts-like-an-adolescent hubby whose younger days were like a slightly more hillbilly version of Summer of '42, I'm sure.

I started thinking about my own high school days. The first experience that springs to mind is a Lutheran church retreat for middle and high schoolers in which (1) the pastor's son smoked an entire box of cigars while rowing a boat, lost an oar and became violently ill as the boat made small circles, and (2) a "snipe hunt" that involved a great deal of inappropriate groping in the bushes.

Just what was it about church-related activities and naughty teenage behavior?

I won't even go into what went on during a Young Life ski trip bus ride across three states. But these rites of passage weren't isolated to just my classmates. My friend Carol went pale at the mere mention of the phrase "Young Life Ski Trip" and emphatically swore (with a sly smile, nonetheless) that her daughter would "NEVER be going on one of those," based on her own similar experiences.

Kate peered over my shoulder as I was typing this. She gave a disgusted laugh.

"Ewwww, Mom! That was the sleazy 70s!"

Were we really sleazier? I don't know. You can't change the past, but you can look back on it with a mix of nostalgia, wonderment and revulsion. I'm finding you're never too old to outgrow the classically useful phrases, "Ewww" and "Whatever."

And the universal threats to our own kids that they'd BETTER NOT be up to the things we used to do!

Actual conversation, 6:11 p.m.

2006-02-07T16:50:00.000-08:00

Jack: Mom, I've been thinking, and I've decided to limit the number of hours I watch TV.

Me: Really? Wow. To how many?

Jack: Seven.

Me: Seven... a day? Or a week?

Jack: No, 7p.m.

Me: What about 7p.m.?

Jack: I won't watch any TV after 7p.m.

Me: Wow, Jack. That's very mature of you. Does this have anything to do with that lecture I gave you the other night?

Jack: No. Well, maybe a little. That and there's nothing good after the Simpsons.

Wicked web

2006-02-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

“Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.” — Sir Walter Scott

“Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.
And so, my friends, it seems the fact is, all of us could use more practice." — perhaps Odgen Nash or Dorothy Parker, I don't know
________________________________________________________________

(Note: this post is a sequel. For the full effect, read the post below first.)

My mom can sniff out deceit faster than a pig rooting for truffles.

Not 24 hours had passed from the moment my son Jack committed his musical fender bender on the very lovely trumpet my parents gave him for his twelfth birthday before my mother called an impromptu musical family reunion. Every now and then my mom likes to pretend her offspring are the Cowsills or the Partridge family. This is usually fueled by visits from my airline pilot brother, who is a drummer in a band when he's not inconvenienced by having to fly planes.

"Your brother's in town for only one night! We're re-stringing your dad's guitar. I'm calling from the music store right now. Tell Kate to bring her guitar and Jack to bring his trumpet! We want to hear the solo he played today."

"Uhhhh, okay, Mom, I'll see if we have room for all that. Um, Jack may be trumpeted out for one day."

"Just bring it. I promised your brother that Jack would play for him. Go pack it right now."

I swear, this was no coincidence. I know in my bones that some radar inside my mom was going off, "Alert! Alert! Have you checked that expensive trumpet you bought for your grandson lately? Something's going on and you need to know about it!"

I wearily packed the crumpled trumpet for the trip to Mom's. There was no use trying to come up with anything other than the horrible truth.

When I was in junior high, Mom would ask me what I had for lunch that day. As casually as possible, I'd say, "Oh, breaded veal cutlet, mashed potatoes, fruit cup and let's see...one of those mellorine bar things."

"Tracy, don't lie to your mother. You had a corn dog and a raspberry jelly roll. And two Dr. Peppers!"

How did she always know? And why did she only ask me on the days I ate the crappy stuff? Thirty five years later, I'm still terrified of her Truth-Seeking-Radar.

My mom loves to spend great gobs of money on my children. She also loves to remind me of that fact. ("Is Kate wearing that sweater I BOUGHT HER?") After the lengthy hoo-hah my folks went through in order to acquire the perfect trumpet for Jack— phone calls to music stores all over the country and finally their frenzied involvement in various Ebay auctions, I could not bear to think of their reaction when they discovered what had become of Jack's horn.

"Did you bring the trumpet?" Mom demanded shortly after I arrived at her house.

"Uh, yeah, I think so."

"Well, don't you know? Who packed it, you or Jack?"

"I think I did."

"Well, then, go get it! Your brother wants to see it!"

"Uhhh, Mom, about Jack's trumpet. I don't want to bring it out; I don't want Jack to be upset. Yesterday he put a dent in it and he feels so lousy about it, he was crying like crazy. Even though it plays fine, I've got to take it to be repaired. I don't want him to see you looking at it; he just feels terrible. You understand."

"Oh, okay. That poor baby! But I wouldn't have been mad!" (Oh yeah? Now who's fibbing, Mom?)

Shoot. I meant to ask her not to tell Dad.

Horn of plenty

2006-02-03T21:37:00.000-08:00

Most of the time, I consider myself to be an excellent mother. But for those times when I'm consumed with guilt at my demanding nature and bad temper, I come here to blog and cool off. (Hmmm. This is the second time this week, and this blog's only a few days old!)

Jack has been practicing for several weeks for his trumpet solo in a UIL competition tomorrow. We've paid the fees, had him practice with the freelance piano accompanist, made a special trip to the music store for a new book, and marked the measures, as required, in faint pencil. We've even picked out his clothes.

When I say Jack has practiced, I use that term loosely. In fact, seventh grader Jack doesn't mind a LITTLE practice as long as it doesn't interfere with his regimen of watching television, playing PS2, or building with Legos. Which is fine. Jack enjoys the social aspects of middle school band but has made it pretty clear that he's not planning on becoming the next Chris Botti. Dave and I encourage him to practice, but exhange amused looks when he gets to the hard part of a song and decides he needs one more drink of water or that his toothbrush is suddenly calling him.

This week was expecially tough for my son. He seemed to dread playing his music much more than usual. I bought and learned the piano accompaniment to his song, offering to play with him for fun and practice, but that just seemed to add to his stress. As he got closer each day to playing for a judge, he became more tense and played even more poorly than the day before. I decided not to push him. But tonight I finally I had to tell him the time had come, he was simply going to have to work through the wobbly sounding middle section of the song.

From Jack's bedroom I heard this pattern no less than twenty times: Start/Squeak/Stop/Groan/Repeat. Finally, after a small spell of silence, I went into to check on him. What I saw made me physically sick and what I said to my son was pretty toxic as well.

The bell of Jack's beautiful Bach Stradivarious trumpet was crumpled, twisted and squashed into a hideous oval shape. I could not imagine how this had happened. Hot tears starting shooting out of Jack's eyes and two stalactites of snot dribbled over his fuzzy upper lip.

"It. Was. An. Accident," his voice cracked. "I. Just. DroppedItOnTheCarpet."

"ACCIDENT???" I shrieked, my jaw limp and hanging. "You just happened to pick twelve hours before UIL to have an accident?

I'm ashamed to say, I turned into Lee Ermey sometime during this part of the conversation.

"YOUR GRANDPARENTS PAID FOUR FIGURES FOR THIS MUSICAL INSTRUMENT AND THAT WAS ON EBAY! THIS IS LIKE A WRECKING A CAR! THIS IS LIKE DROPPING A BABY! IF THIS TRUMPET HAD REALLY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU, YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE LET IT DROP!

For a minute, I didn't care that Jack was choking on his own sobs. I launched into a long speech about preparedness and maturity and commitment and carelessness, and I'm not competely sure what I said, except I'm certain my face was pink and distorted, and I do remember mentioning something about "getting off your ass" and "not watching marathons on Cartoon Network."

Then I felt so terrible for my stressed-out, sobbing little man-boy, I would have done anything to make him feel better. Once I was over my shock and horror at the disfigured trumpet, my speech took a turn along the lines of (1) It's only a thing; things aren't as important as people, (2) You are a great kid and a blessing and my greatest love, (3) I'm sure we can get it fixed somehow (gulp).

I sent Jack to the shower and told him to read until bedtime. We decided to get a fresh start in the morning and if his practicing didn't sound performance-ready, we would bow out of UIL this year. He seemed relieved at having options but said in a small voice that he wanted to try to make the competition. He stopped sniffling when I showed him seemingly miraculous before-and-after internet photos of repairs made to a mangled trumpet.

According to the trumpet repair websites I Googled, restoring the trumpet and renting a temporary new one is going to set us back about 400 bucks. About ten months of Jack's allowance, if we go that route. With some luck, we can get it looking normal again. But I think Jack will remember the night his mom turned into The Great Santini for a long time.

— Postscript to this story: On Saturday morning, Jack had the best practice session of his life and played beautifully for the judge, dents and all. I've got my happy guy back again.

Gimme some sugar

2006-02-02T20:35:00.000-08:00

About a week ago I discovered two half-full boxes of a cereal called Smorz (apparently hip hop culture has changed even the way we name our breakfast foods; I'm sure the next thing is "Lucky CharmZ, Biatches!" ) in the cupboard. The boxes were identical except for my children's names scrawled across each in my husband's distinctively slanty capital letters and poor use of Sharpie pen.

"Has it come to this? Didn't they learn to share in kindergarten?" I asked David. Our children are 12 and 15 years old.

"I know, but it's the only way to break up the fights. I can't keep this stuff in the house!" My darling hubby does not mind going to the grocery store. In fact, Dave has recently become something of a born again "foodie" and prides himself on bringing exciting new items home from the store when he's not drinking red wine with his new TV buddies Emeril LaGasse and that damn perky Rachael Ray. (That is another story.)

Smorz describes itself on the box as such: "CRUNCHY GRAHAM CEREAL WRAPPED IN RICH CHOCOLATEY COATING WITH MARSHMALLOWS." Wow. What's not to like? I had to try it.

Admittedly, I have had a terrible sweet tooth my entire life. As an adult, I have eaten Easter Peeps for breakfast, chased with bacon and sweetened coffee. I can eat the icing and leave the cake. Pralines, Eagle Brand in a can, those sugary fruit slices that come in four colors — all have a special place in my heart. Just last week when out to lunch with our new associate, Mark, I became aware that not everyone pre-orders their coconut pie before their sandwich order out of fear the deli's supply will run out, eyeing the waitress suspiciously to make sure she really does reserve that slice of pie. But I sure do.

As a kid in the sixties, we didn't have the kind of indulgent mega-marketing treats my kids have access to now. Back in the day, Oreos were the king of the cookie but they only came in one basic format. With the help of a spoon and a trash can, I invented my own version of Double Stuf Oreos decades before someone at Nabisco decided maybe the concept wouldn't be too grotesque to present to a marketing focus group.

So when I tasted my first bowl of Smorz, I realized that at last, one of my childhood fantasies had come true. At last someone had created a cereal like tasted just like the marshmallow bits in Lucky Charms without the dry, tasteless, beige oat kibble. Sweet!

As kids, my brother and I would always eat only the crunchy, colored marshmallow bits out of the Lucky Charms, causing my mom to threaten never to buy them again until my brother and I would finally wear her down on the next shopping trip. I never understood why the folks at General Mills didn't just make an all-marshmallow bit cereal. Maybe because then the "charms" wouldn't be special. Maybe because 1960s parents wouldn't tolerate such a hedonistic, tooth-rotting product. Obviously, it would take another generation before consumers would start to feel like too much of a bad thing wasn't such a bad thing.

Yes, Smorz are sweet indeed. Where's my Sharpie pen?

Monkeys are ruining my marriage

2006-02-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

Sock monkeys, actually. Dozens of them artfully replicated on aqua flannel pajamas from Target.

For anyone not familiar with sock monkeys, they are hand-crafted folk art toys made from a pair of red heeled work socks. When pieced together, one red heel supplies a pair of huge lips, and the other creates a charmingly vulgar red bum. I still have the one my grandmother made for my father in the 1930s. Just last year I passed the torch to my daughter when we made several of them together using red heeled socks now found only on the internet. Kind of a cracker trash rite of passage.

Anyway, these Nick and Nora pajamas stopped me in my tracks back in October when my daughter and I were shopping. Now I have been obsessed with kitsch from an early age, so when I saw this rack of hilariously tacky flannel sleepwear, my heart soared. Besides the sock monkey pattern, good old Target offered several designs of interest: royal blue with a snow dome pattern (Double hooray for this design, as I have amassed well over 200 tacky plastic souvenir snow domes since 1986 — so this was of particular attraction), a yard gnome pattern, and a really eye-catching presentation of pink flamingos and airstream trailers. It was difficult to choose; of course I wanted them all, but, not one to be greedy, I finally settled on the sock monkeys and snow domes. I hinted to Kate that I would love to have them as a Christmas present. Well, actually, I demanded she allow me to buy them and hide them in her room until Christmas, "to help your dad out with the shopping." She complied, knowing we had hit the mother lode of gifts for her mother of unique tastes. "We'd better get these NOW," I emphasized, shoving them into Kate's basket,"They're sure to be gone if we wait."

Four months later the entire rack of comical pajamas still remains at Target, reduced for clearance. I guess few people share my affection for comfort and whimsy.

At the close of a harried day, nothing makes me happier than to slip into my soft, oversized brushed flannel PJs covered with merry little sock monkeys. The pictures are charming and varied: there are sock monkeys driving cars, sock monkeys bowling, sock monkeys watching television, sock monkeys reclining in hammocks, and — my favorite — a sock monkey slipping on a banana peel.

When I blissfully crawl into bed, my husband usually takes one look at the pajamas and makes a slightly pained face — like he smells something bad but is trying to hide his reaction — to be followed by a heavy sigh. It's simply not possible to find me alluring in my beloved monkey PJs.

Beauty is in the eye of the comfy. Hmmph, I think. Love me, love my monkeys.

But he cannot. So I must find a compromise.

I wonder if Target will ever issue a silky black nightie emblazoned with tiny sock monkeys or snow domes. Judging by the clearance rack, it seems doubtful.

Shaft wasn't the only bad mother —

2006-01-27T14:03:00.000-08:00

Actually, today I am feeling like the bad mother of the Mommie Dearest/ Mama Rose sort.

You know you have much to be thankful for when your biggest complaint about your child is that you thought she could have written a better bio for her high school musical.

I need to stop micro managing certain aspects of my children's lives.

Other parents worry about their children sneaking out, failing their classes, wrecking the car.

Me, I feel I must say something to my child regarding why she thanked the choir teacher and not the drama teacher. (Why did she do that, I still wonder?)

Note to myself: stop it!

Okay, Nancy and Mark, are you happy?

2006-01-25T21:39:00.000-08:00

I have a new to place to write the stuff that spills out of my mind. Thanks!

Hooray for coworkers.