Summertime...and the livin' is easy

School's out for the summer!

And that makes me happy because I love...

Getting to see more of my husband. He used to work three nights a week and Saturdays during the school year in order to teach third grade. Those days ended when he got his master's degree, but he still spends long hours at the school and we hardly even see each other at all during the month of May. In fact, I found it serendipitous last Thursday when I stopped by Barnes and Noble after my quilt class to pick up thank-you's for my kids' teachers and saw him walking into Office Max for some last minute supplies for his annual Grandview slide show. It became a spontaneous 15-minute date-night at Office Max. Already by Friday night I could feel the weight he carries on his shoulders lift a little, for a couple of short months anyway.

The hum of bees swarming my pillars of honeysuckle.

Not having to get anyone out of bed and ready for school in the mornings.

The crack of a bat in the ball park. I'm going through withdrawals this year, as my single boy of summer has chosen cross country instead of baseball. But I might just have to hang out at random fields about town and look for orphans who need someone to cheer for them.

Sitting on my shaded deck for breakfast, lunch and/or dinner.

The made-for-each-other mingling of laughter and splashing on the slip-n-slide, at a pool, or in the spontaneous combustion of a water fight.

Ten weeks of indulgence in my desire to raise free-range children.

The scent of a BBQ.

Late nights with the windows open--listening to circling ceiling fan blades in rhythm with chirping crickets.

The splash of sweet sun-ripened tomatoes dripping down my chin.

Not having to nag anyone about whether or not their homework is done.

The filtered fluttering of shade shed down from leafy tree tops.

Butter drenched corn-on-the-cob--sprinkled lightly with sea salt--dripping down my chin.

Flip-flops, painted toe-nails and bare feet.

The purring motor of an electric ice-cream freezer. Because I do make dang good homemade ice cream. It's one of my five talents.

Not caring what time we finally get around to finally eating dinner at night.

The sound of drying beach towels or laundry flapping in the breeze.

Playing in the rain after the thunder and lightening fade away.

Dew. Freshly-squeezed lemonade. Fluffy white cotton-candy clouds. The South Fork of Provo Canyon. But most especially...the care-free smiles spreading across the tanned faces of my kids.

7 Sevens...for Sister Pottymouth

My 7 Sevens List

~7 things I want to do before I die (+1)
ride a harley
balance my checkbook
learn to play the cello
finish all my quilting projects
be at peace with myself
finish cleaning my house
learn to scat
see something fabulous on Broadway

~7 things I cannot do
curl my tongue
wear socks
be at peace with myself
a four-minute mile
resist wantonly posting links to Lazy Sunday
bring myself to dust
grow up

~7 things that attracted me to my spouse
his offering of home-grown beets
how he loved to dance with the wallflowers
his sense of humor
his generosity
his "best buns in 501s" award
his heart
his ability to notice and appreciate the simple things

~7 things I say often
"wash your hands"
"so sue me"
"be part of the solution, not part of the problem"
"bye, luv ya"
"who made you King of the World?"
"no worries"
"take care"

~7 books I love (+1)
Riddle-Master
Tuesday Next novels
Anna Karinina
Which I read several times.
Long before Oprah told me to.
Unless
Peter Mayle
Reading Lolita in Tehran
The Secret Life of Bees
Ladder of Years

~7 movies I could watch over and over (+1)
So I Married an Ax Murderer
Emma
The First X-Men (mostly just the part where Wolverine saves Rogue)
Pirates of the Caribbean
O Brother Where Art Thou
The Man Who Knew Too Little
Twister
You've Got Mail

~7 People from whom I'd like to hear 7 Sevens
Melody
becks (even if she thinks middle-aged people run funny)
Lyle
Jake Roi
and anyone else who hasn't already been tagged:
YOU'RE IT!

Because I'm slow with my sevens...Five from over the wire:

This just in...a woman apparently died while on a nighttime flight and none of the other passengers--INCLUDING HER HUSBAND!--or the flight crew realized she was dead till the landing. This is one of my greatest fears. I could fall off the face of the planet and no one would know.

Well, except maybe for my always starving teenager.

What's on Hillary's iPod? Who wants to know? The woman obviously had no taste--in fashion, in hair design (OK, so I really shouldn't talk...), nor in men. So why would we be remotely interested in what kind of music she likes? If we just ignore her, will she please go away?

Even the bouncers looked scared? Maybe they should have a disclaimer at the beginning of her concerts...? If we just ignore her, will she please go away?

From my home state: A panel recently ruled that Oregon lawmakers and their staff should not be legislating while drunk. Well OK, so the fact that they actually might be says a lot. But the fact that an independent panel had to advise them that they shouldn't? Well, that says a lot too.

I don't really have anything to say about this, except that as soon as I read the headline I thought the dateline would be Provo. It wasn't. Anybody's second guess?

Five raves to match five rants...

~Inhaling wildly, madly, deeply the honeysuckle growing next to my front door

~Birdsong keeping me company in my early-morning insomnia

~My ten-year-old daughter telling me how she loves the boys she loves

~My six-year-old son telling me how he loves me

~Friends I've never met dropping in to read what's on my mind...

for bek: on living with daughters

My daughter, who's only 10, has been boy crazy for quite some time now. It is truly THE BANE of my existence. And I am scared silly about getting through the next 10 years. (Already I have often contemplated the wisdom of the Catholic concept of the convent...)


Last Christmas Suze (not her real name, but short for Suzie Q) wanted to get a present for this boy she has loved for the entire school year. I didn't encourage her, but I thought something like a candy bar might be appropriate.

One night, while I was away, she went to the mall under someone else's supervision (or lack thereof) and spent $30 on a $60 hoodie for her one true love.

Can you say "Wildly inappropriate?"

I had been home for a couple of hours before my husband casually mentioned something about it (probably anticipating, correctly, the wrath it would incur). It was late so I went in and confiscated the bag with the hoodie--making sure, of course, that she still had the receipt--and told her we'd talk about it in the morning.

Because I hoped that if I slept on it I wouldn't do her bodily harm.

And I hid the bag in my bedroom.


By the next morning I had forgotten all about it and she was up and cheerful for a change and left for school a little early and all was well.

Or so I thought.


At some point the light dawned on the reason for her cheerfulness and I went to make sure the bag was still there.

It was gone.

I marched down to the school in such a rage, screaming in my head how mad I was that she a). had bought the darn thing in the first place b). was that enamored with a boy at the tender age of 10 and c). had had the gall to boldly search through my things in order to deliberately disobey me. I was also pleading with the powers above that I would know what to do and how to handle it. (Is it OK to pray when you're that angry?)

Because, in my mind, this was that big. (And because I pretty much knew that if I personally hauled a boy out of class and demanded he return the hoodie I'd probably be in big trouble.)


Fortunately, as I marched down the halls of the school I saw a couple of people I knew, which gave me a few moments to remember to breathe again and required me to be civil enough that I had cooled down a bit before I got to her class.

I pulled Suze out of class and learned, to my greater dismay, that she had already given him the hoodie.

Fortunately, I was sane enough by that time that I didn't do anything that would've set off the alarms at DCFS and I did have a good talk with her, telling her it was an inappropriate gift and explaining that the reason I had taken it away last night was because I wanted to protect her from being embarrassed. But I was still faced with the problem of how to get the hoodie back.

I can tell you all, dear readers, that prayers are answered.

Because at that very moment the principal walked by and I--of course without even thinking--told her I had a problem that morning and was wondering if she could help me handle it. (Poor Suze, can you imagine this scene from the mind of a 10-year-old?).

Miss G- took right over and called us both into her office and said the most perfect things. She explained about what's appropriate for the giving of gifts and was so kind, patient and absolutely perfect. Then she left us in her office and went to get the boy (and the horribly wrong hoodie) and brought them in.

I am sure that Suze was just mortified.

I know I was.

So Miss G- got the hoodie back and gave it to me and said the most perfect things to the kids. She told them how it's kind of neat to be admired, launched again into the lecture on appropriate gifts, then requested that this be kept between the four of us so that no one would get hurt feelings or be embarrassed (any further, anyway).

Then she sent the boy back to class and talked with us some more. She told Suze about her own mother, who died in an accident when she was young, and said how badly she wished she could talk to her mother again. She told Suze that I was on her side and she (Suze) should be so lucky (OK, maybe I said that part about being so lucky, or at least I wanted to). She told Suze how hard it must've been for me to march down to the school that morning to do the right thing. (Yes, I was balling my eyes out by this time--I thought, wouldn't any mother do the very same thing?). She guessed that Suze would probably be a little mad at me and said that would be OK, but encouraged her to know and remember that I loved her and wanted what's best for her.

All those things that I wanted to say, but that Suze would've never have heard. You know, for all the yelling and all.

And she said it so much more beautifully than I ever could have.


So that night I took Suze to the mall and we returned the evil hoodie and then ate at the nasty eatery and enjoyed a somewhat less surly evening together.

And I hoped she learned her lesson.


But secretly I am happy about one thing.

She bought a $60 hoodie for $30!!!!!

Got a date with da Vinci...

Noon. Friday. Looking forward to it.

...and I'm taking the poor reviews as a good sign.

And now back to The Price is Right!

Congratulations to my sister, whom I've never met. She nailed the contest on both counts. And I love it that she made a trip to TJs to see the divine bag in person.

Of course I didn't buy it. But I did go up and ask the sales clerk if she was sure there wasn't some mistake. After all, it was TJ Maxx. I also put it on hold for all of one hour so I could somehow almost possess it...even for a short time.

And I'll always have pictures.

We interrupt The Price is Right for a message re: Mother's Day

RE: This emotionally charged holiday--Mother's Day

I have this to say:

~Inasmuch as nine o'clock church has killed any futile hopes of breakfast in bed (which has occurred on maybe two occasions in the past 17 years), I am going to stay up very late tonight (read: early tomorrow morning) to clean my disaster of a kitchen and pre mix a big batch of crepe batter. I vow to selflessly--and, most sincerely with no strings attached--prepare and serve crepes for breakfast tomorrow morning.

~Although I am generally fairly successful on most Mother's days at 1). having low expectations in order NOT to be disappointed 2). refusing to pick up and bear any guilt that may--intentionally or otherwise--be laid at my feet and 3). most especially trying NOT to lay a burden of guilt on my own dear children...it's pretty much a crap shoot on any given year how it will go.

I have therefor taken a preemptive strike and had my meltdown TODAY! It's over. Whew! Tomorrow is just another day. I will focus my efforts on trying to help my own mother feel special tomorrow. I need nothing else. From anyone.

Que cera, cera.

~My heart goes to those of you who--for whatever reason--suffer painfully on this day.

~My thanks goes to all my favorite sisters who love my kids abundantly and without condition.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
So today we had a lovely mother and daughter brunch with my L-'s activity day group.

Here is what I observed during the very fun three-legged race (which was followed by a round of dodgeball, in which we mothers mercilessly took down our daughters without hesitation or regret):

Scenario 1:
J- and her daughter B- were in perfect tandem. They actually ran the race the entire way. "One, two. One, two. One, two." Perfect rhythm and a decisive first-place win.

Scenario 2:
B- and her daughter K- had a different experience. Arms around one-another they got off to a good start. But tiny K- accidentally slipped out of the tie that bound her to her mother and excitedly ran ahead. And B-, with relief on her face, sat down to watch the finish.

Scenario 3, or, what happened to me:

L- resisted all my efforts to link my arms with hers. She refused to follow as I called out an orderly, "Step. Step. Step." And she quickly--and most deliberately shed the tie that bound her to me and raced ahead to the finish line unencumbered by a mother with a bad knee on one leg and a hole in her foot on the other.

I sat down to watch. And cheered her on.

At first I thought how nice it would be to be synchronous with my daughter. Like J- and B-. Just a moment of regret and self-reproach (I'm doing it wrong, I thought).

But then I realized that this is what I want. This is exactly how it is supposed to be.

She is destined to fly like the wind on her own way to whatever lies ahead for her.

She starting to learn who she is.

She knows what she wants.

And she's not looking back.

(But she will someday. And I know exactly when. It will be the same time I first took a moment to look back at my own mother--finally with a small sense of the bottomless depth in that deep pool of love and sacrifice that is motherhood--)

Run daughter. Run!

Let's play...the Price is Right!

And speaking of all things wonderfully TJ...

Two Questions:

1). How much is this celestial bag?

2). Did I buy it?

Post your guesses to both questions and tune in next time for the Price is Right!

Meaner than a junkyard dog

So I was ranting to Lorien the other day and she pre- scribed blog therapy.


And here it is:

We are junk magnets at my house. There is something about us that just screams "White Trash" "Redneck" or "Your Junk Wanted Here!"

Now don't get me wrong. I love hand-me-downs. Particularly of the clothing or furniture variety. It's almost magical. I need shorts and some dress shirts for the boys. Corrine K or Olga S magically appear with--you guessed it--shorts and dress shirts for the boys.

In fact, Olga is sent from heaven, as is her sister, the rocket scientist. Until recently I have never had to purchase anything but socks and underwear for my daughter because inevitably just as I am ready to bite the bullet and drop a few too many Hamiltons (sorry, couldn't resist) for girl clothes, Aunt Arlene sends boxes of beautiful clothes--name brand and some with the labels still attached--for my L-. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!

No, I am ranting about something else entirely. Junk. Just junk. People--and I mean perfectly nice people--show up at our house on a regular basis with pure unadulterated junk and ask,

"Do you have a warm bed and some food for this poor orphaned rusty piece of scrap metal?"

"Can you take in these old warped pieces of wood?"

"Can these random pieces of something-that-once-was-useful please stay with you for awhile?"

And inevitable the kind-hearted reply is

"Yes. We'd love to help out."

This phenomenon has been taking place since we were first married. It all began, benignly enough, with old furniture. Which we badly needed and appreciated.

In fact, when people used to ask us where we lived our reply was always,

"On the way to DI."

Because people would always call us and say,

"We're going to DI. Do you want us to drop off Great Aunt Bertha's BarcaLounger on our way?"

And we'd quickly make a spot for Great Aunt Bertha's BarcaLounger in the house.

We didn't actually buy our first piece of furniture till we'd been married about eight years. How do you like that? Even then, to this day, all we've ever actually purchased by way of furniture is one sofa, one fridge, and a book shelf or two. Oh, and one of those air mattresses that now has a hole in it.

It's just the junk building supplies I really object to. Oh, and the old appliances. Is there a reason we have an old green refrigerator sitting on our side patio?

The results are piles of stuff leaning up against the side of the house. Now it's slowly winding its way around to the back. Let's not get started on the garage.

Some of it is good stuff. We do have a couple of pieces of decent furniture and some nice headboards. We really might need those. Someday.

But most of it is just junk. And I don't want it. I'll never use it. And I'm tired of looking at it, tripping over it, and wondering "Why us?"

Here is a partial inventory:

*Three used pools of various and sundry shape and volume and reason for extinction
*Enough scraps of wood (also of various and sundry shapes and sizes) to build a Shantytown Provo. Or two...
*Two used BBQ grills. With parts for at least three more. One works, but it's missing a wheel. An attachment from one left recently left its imprint in the bottom of my foot.
*Lots of lost and beat up chairs handed down from an elementary school.
*An old olive green--or was it almond brown--refrigerator.
*Parts from three bent-wood rockers in various stages of demise.
*And old bassinet that legend says my dad made with his bare hands. Now weathered from the outdoor exposure of another Utah winter.
*There was a nice stack of old logs and a bed frame. But the giver of that treasure actually came and took it back. Go figure.
*At least three or four rusty bikes that don't work. Except in emergencies.
and the list goes on...

So last Saturday I went a bit postal on the kids and made a valiant attempt to purge the junk. I swore not a child in the house would have another meal until the back deck and the back yard were cleaned up. Aside from scaring our newly-wed neighbors--who don't have kids yet, obviously--I didn't accomplish much. We did fill up the trash bucket twice and the back of our old pick-up. The deck is clean. Well, mostly clean. (Or it was until my daughter decided to take advantage of something horizontal at my house that wasn't heaped with junk and build a fort.) As is the most of the backyard. But it seems we hardly made a dent in the pile of junk. It's still a veritable mountain!

Rrrrrrrring. Ring.

"Hello?"

"My friend just tore down her barn. Could you possibly make room for some beautiful old barn wood that has fallen on hard times?"

Isn't it ironic?

Look what they've sent to save us from the dreaded West Nile Virus epidemic.

Brilliant!

Pardonnez-moi. May I have a bite of your Canapé?

Only 24 days left till the best reason I've had in a long time to party. Well, at least to celebrate and indulge in all things French. Apparently this lovely international concept celebrating French food and drink has not caught on here in the states (quelle suprise) and is currently only celebrated in New York and Chicago. Quel dommage!

So I'm proposing a grassroots campaign amongst the chosen here in Happy Valley--in fact, anywhere in blog world--and its environs to stock up at Eliane's (because I want them to stay in business through the eternities), make your own or head on up to the overpriced but decadently delicious Melting Pot--just celebrate!

L'Apéritif à la française: June 1, 2006.

Plan a party.

Post your recipes.

Eat, eat and be merry.

Bon appétit!

Letters and Prayers

"Please bless the food that it will be good. And please bless the food that it will not be bad."--My six-year-old over Sunday dinner...which is as good as it gets around my house...and has never been known to be that bad.

"Please bless me to not mess up my kids more than they--or I--can bear."--Me. Every day. Because I am not perfect for this job. But I'm all they got.