Why Things Don't Get Done

First of all, I’d like to extend a hearty welcome to all the new readers from Facebook! It’s a first step to making this thing a bit more public, taking the pressure of the dedicated core of readers that I’ve been forcing to come here over the past few years.

My intention was to bring the blog out of the closet and then fill your week with a bunch of new entries. But I was stymied by two problems. The first problem was that Blue and Green did not have camp this week. So my days began like this:

6:33 a.m.

Green: Mommy, I’m bored

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: There’s nothing to do at our house.

Me: i…need…coffee…before...i…can…talk…to…you

Green: Can we go snorkeling now?

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: Where’s my bathing suit?

Me (growling): Honey, the sun isn’t up yet.

Blue: We could go build a giant helium-powered light apparatus that shoots bad guys and let’s us see underwater in the dark! Mommy, do we have a chainsaw?

Green: IT’S NOT FAIR. HE’S GETS TO BUILD THE GIANT HELIUM-POWERED LIGHT APPARATUS BEFORE I DO!!!!

Blue: (punches Green in stomach)

Green: My arm is broken! He hit me, and my arm is broken!

Me: I think he punched you in the stomach.

Green: You always take his side!


Needless to say, my lovely children didn’t help me get a lot of writing done this week. My other big challenge involved preparing for our upcoming family reunion vacation. It’s not the actual packing that’s the issue. I haven’t even begun that process. I don’t know if this happens to you (or if it’s my own particular brand of crazy), but in the days before any trip, I become obsessed with attending to obscure household details.

This time, it was the bathroom grout. Was it always that color? Shouldn’t it be white? I can’t explain why dirty grout would be a problem in an empty house, while it never bothers me when we’re actually in town. And so there I was, on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and bleach, and a myriad other bizarre cleaning tasks were already forming an unsteady pyramid in my mind. That shower curtain is looking a little funky – should I replace it? The rug in the boys’ bedroom is beginning to smell a little bit too much like boys – should I get carpet cleaner? Old Cliff Huxtable-esque sweaters are thrown in a haphazard heap on the closet floor – take to Goodwill? Stuff from my dissertation is still shoved in a cardboard box under my desk – is it time to organize.? Has the food in the emergency kit expired? Do we even have an emergency kit? Ack!!!

The Unnecessary Things to Do list was growing ever larger, and I was growing ever more anxious. And, still on my hands and knees, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked to referee a fight in a while. I hadn’t been asked to read a book or do a craft project or feed anyone junk food. I peered out of the bathroom and saw nothing. I strained to listen. There was quiet followed by the words “fuel” and “exploding” and “hee hee hee.” It suddenly became clear to me that my grout might be clean, but my unattended children were busy in the kitchen building a bomb.

I am in awe of creative people, especially when they say how they get their work done. You know, the author who writes her novel on the bus while commuting to work, or the painter who paints at 4 a.m. before the day starts. But after this week, I’m pretty sure that these people don’t have children or grout. I may not have entertained you very well this week, bloggers, but I did manage to save the neighborhood from 7-year-old terrorists. And I deserve something for that.

(Next time you come over to my house, check out the baseboards! Shiny!)

Vacation Recap

Just in case you were wondering, I did bring the laptop with me on vacation. BUT I never turned it on, not even once. It sat unattended in my suitcase, making me just a bit (well, actually a lot) paranoid that some wicked sunbather was going to break into our hotel room and steal it.

We had a nice time, despite a wee windstorm and the occasional six-year-old attitude problem. Notably, Green decided, after years of flagrant nudity, that he was suddenly and unrelentingly modest. "Uh, Green," I said. "Could you wait to take this developmentally-appropriate step until the whole family is not crammed into a single tiny space?" "NO!!!!" he bellowed. "I need my privacy!!" Not to be outdone, Blue also decided that I was never to set eyes on his cute little butt again. "But Blue," I argued, "just yesterday you were playing the naked somersault game!" (Come to think of it, I could do without any more naked somersaults). He looked at me as if to say, "That was then, this is now." The result of this new declaration was that the two of them spent a considerable amount of the vacation arguing about who was going to change his clothes in the postage stamp-sized bathroom.

The other thing that I learned on this trip is that it is unwise for me EVER to express my opinion or to make a suggestion. Apparently, adolescence has arrived early, because both kids are dead set on rejecting all of my good ideas. Here's an example:

(Vacation Morning Number One)

Me: Boys! Let's go to the beach!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too!
Me: But look -- the beach is sandy! You can dig!
Green: Digging is dumb.
Me: When did digging become dumb? Yesterday you made a point of bringing your buckets and shovels.
Blue: It wasn't dumb yesterday, but it's dumb today.

(Vacation Morning Number Two)

Me: Look, boys! There are waves at the beach! Let's go jump in them!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too.
Me: But there are no waves in the pool...
Green: Waves are dumb.
Blue: What a bad idea, Mommy.

(Vacation Morning Number Three. One hour before checkout).

Random Playmate: I'm going to the beach!
Green: Let's go to the beach!
Blue: Yes, the beach!
Green: This is so amazing! There's sand!
Blue: We can jump off the dock into the waves!
Me: Guys, you have five more minutes, and then we have to go pack up and leave.
Green: No fair! We didn't get to spend any time at the beach!
Blue: Why didn't you tell us there was sand at the beach! Why didn't you tell us about the waves?
Me: I did, but....
Green: I never get to do what I want!
Blue: I never want to go home!

(Wild, epic screaming ensues)

Next year, I'm going to try a different approach. This is what I envision:

Me: Boys, you may not go to the beach.
Green: Why? There's sand on the beach!
Blue: We could dig!
Me: Beaches are violent and dangerous and inappropriate.
Green: Mommy, you have to let us go to the beach!
Blue: Pleeease!
Me: OK. Just this once.
Green: You are the nicest Mommy ever.

Brilliant, don't you think?

Twelve

Since we’re getting in the habit of achieving last summer’s goals, I decided that it would be fun to finally go on that coastal hike that Michael and I wanted to do last year. Unfortunately, when I checked out the trail I found that, once again, we would have a high tide problem. But you know what? I’m sick of obstacles. I’m sick of Mother Nature trying to tell me what I can and cannot do. So I persuaded Michael that we could get to the coast, hike the several miles in to the beach, and see all the natural wonderfulness before the ocean whisked us away.

This, apparently, was an error in judgment. Tides do not like sassy ladies to challenge their authority. More on that later.

We deposited the kids with my parents (Junk food! Toys! Constant attention!), and headed out for the drive to the ocean. We used to be road trip experts. There was no blue highway too rural for us. So much of our history together involves a travelling adventure or an odyssey. But these days, I am tired. Time is in short supply, and my butt gets sore if I sit too long.

We discovered this time around that what may look like a short distance on a map could really be a very lengthy, tedious drive on a poorly-maintained gravelly road. I had hoped to spend a little time in a town called Pysht --- because, really, how funny a name is that!? I thought, “Hey! I could do a remote blog from Pysht!” But it seems that Pysht is too small a place to actually have a building, so we must have driven right through it. This cracked me up. “Hey Michael,” I said. “I think we already pashed Pysht. I am Pysht off! Hee Hee Hee.” (At this point, Michael thwacked me on the back of the head with the map).

My interest in Pysht reminded me of one of our notorious wild goose chases. We were on a road trip up to the Canadian Rockies, and we decided to meander through rural Washington instead of taking the direct route. In particular, I saw on the map that Ronald McDonald was buried in the northeastern part of the state. No one told me that he had died! Poor, grief-stricken Hamburgler! We definitely needed to go see Ronald’s grave and lay a greasy french-fry bag by his headstone. Something like seven hours later, we finally stumbled upon his memorial site. Except this wasn’t Ronald McDonald’s grave after all. It was the gravesite of RANALD MACDONALD -- not a junk food-selling clown, but, rather, the first man to teach English in Japan. My dream of standing on a mountaintop and mournfully singing the early 1980s jingle, “Big Mac, Filet O’Fish, Quarter Pounder, French Fries, Icy Coke, Thick Shake, Sundaes, and Apple Pies,” was dashed.

Anyway, once we pashed Pysht, it was a mere 2 more hours to our destination. This offered me the opportunity to ask Michael, “What are you thinking about?” nearly 3000 times (His responses: nothing, baseball, weather, nothing). I have since learned that it was a good thing that we did not stop to explore the loveliness that would have been Pysht, because a human foot in a tennis shoe washed up on the nearby shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that very day. Many such disembodied feet are turning up on beaches throughout the area, inspiring feelings of general creepiness and providing a reminder to keep up-to-date with one's pedicure.

We arrived at the trailhead just in time for the rain to start. The hike involved three miles of boardwalk trail to the beach, three miles along the beach, and then three miles back along a different boardwalk. Michael went into the ranger station (remember how he loves a pretty ranger?) and was told that high tides were no problem. You just had to climb up and over the impassible parts. In my normal, city life, I tend to walk about 3 miles a day. 9 miles with a little up-and-over shouldn’t feel that different, right?

Wrong.

3 miles along a rocky beach with the tide rushing in does not make for an easy stroll. To this place’s credit, it may have been the most gorgeous, rugged, jagged coastline I had ever seen. And for a moment, I sighed heavily and drank in that seemingly untouched beauty.

Then I had to stop sighing and climb upon a huge dead tree and slide my way across its branches to escape the rushing water. After that, we had to lie down flat and wiggle on our stomachs to get under the next fallen tree. A quick shimmy up some enormous boulders preceded the realization that we were completely stuck. I’m not sure what was louder – the crash of the waves or the crescendo of my whine.

So Michael, what you may not have heard over the noise was the fact that there is no one I’d rather dangle off the edge of the world with than you (even if I get blisters and the bugs make it impossible for me to eat my lunch). Happy 12th anniversary.

Mommies On The Loose

Last weekend, my friend E and I jumped on a train and headed out of town, leaving our families and motherly duties behind us. It was just the two of us --- no schedules to follow, no penguins to manage, no tick-tock-tick-tock of the machinery of everyday living. We wanted to prove that we are women who are still fabulous, still young, still full of spontaneity and fun.

(Getting on train)

Jennifer: Yay! We’re free! No obligations! No kids!

E: Just two wild and crazy ladies with time to kill and money to spend.

Jennifer: And crafting to do. Don’t forget about our bag of craft supplies.

E: I think I forgot my glue stick.

Jennifer: Michael made fun of me for bringing my craft stuff on our trip. Can’t we go to bars AND make collages? Why are the two mutually exclusive?

(Train employee in uniform walks by)

Jennifer: Oooh! Look! A train guy! My boys need a picture of that.

E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about the kids.

Jennifer: I need a picture of the dining car, too. Let’s go find it!

E: Wait. Look what’s getting on the train.

Jennifer: Oh no. It seems like we’ve been seated with a tenth grade girls’ volleyball team.

E: They look like strippers. What were their mothers thinking, letting them go out in public like that?

Jennifer: We’re old enough to be their mothers, you know.

E: Not this weekend. This weekend we’re young, hip, and carefree!

Jennifer: I do have to remember to find a toy store while we’re there. I need to bring back souvenirs.

E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about the kids.

(That night, at dinner)

Jennifer: Woo! This restaurant is swanky!

E: I think you’re supposed to be cool if you come here. Can you fake it for a few minutes?

Jennifer: Look at the yummy list of cocktails! Can you make sure I get back to the hotel safely?

E: How much to you plan to drink?!?

Jennifer: Uh, one or two?

E: You are so NOT cool.

Jennifer: Let’s get that waitress to take our picture!

E: This is so embarrassing.

Jennifer: Uh, Courtney? Could you take our picture? We’re two mommies on a getaway vacation! It’s just us! No children!

E: Stop it. Drink your cocktail.

Jennifer: They call this the “Vampire.” I think it has Squirt in it! Delicious!

E: Don’t drink that too fast! My wine isn’t even here yet.

Jennifer: I shink I mi be gittin loooooopy.

E: I think we need to order you some food.

Jennifer: I mish my kiiiiids. Aren’t my kiiiiiids cuuuttteee?

E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about your kids.

(Next day. Shopping).

Jennifer: I need to get something for Michael.

E: Like what?

Jennifer: I don’t have any ideas. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to get him an Amtrak key chain at the train station.

E: Look! There’s a men’s boutique across the street!

Jennifer: A men’s boutique?

E: Yes! Maybe you can get him a really nice shirt. Let’s go!

(The women enter the store. It is dimly lit, with a sign that says “You must be 18 to enter.” Obscene clothing and paraphernalia line the shelves.)

Jennifer: Uh, E, I think this may be a different kind of shop.

E (picking up what appears to be a whip): Oh. My. God.

(They read a sign that says: "Please Refrain From Hitting Customers While Shopping”)

Jennifer: Hee Hee.

E: Hee Hee.

Together: Hee Hee Hee.

Jennifer: Look, E, I can get some underwear with penguins on them here! I’m totally buying these.

E: You are NOT supposed to be thinking about your kids.

(That night, in the hotel room. Crafting)

E: Aren’t you going to finish your collage?

Jennifer: I’m getting kind of sleepy. It’s after my bedtime.

E: It’s only 9:30.

Jennifer: Exactly.

E: We came all this way. You can’t go to sleep at 9:30.

Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

E: Do you think we should put on some nice clothes and do something wild and crazy? We could crash that wedding reception downstairs…

Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

E: We could talk. Not about kids, but about other stuff. We could discuss the meaning of life!

Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

E: You’re no fun. You’re acting like such a GROWNUP.

Jennifer: Fine. Let’s open the minibar. Tell me the meaning of life.

E: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jennifer: Exactly.

America Got it Right This Time, Dawg

I am about to reveal something very personal. You all know I work at a university. I read big, dense books filled with complicated words. I enjoy a murky coffee shop filled with intellectual-types who spend their days in angst-filled contemplation. But I also have a dirty little secret: I love American Idol. I started watching the show when some of my students told me that the voting component of the program involved "doing democracy." Really? Huh. Well, yeah, that's true if you believe that democracy is aggressively sponsored by Coca-Cola and involves choosing which pretty kid sang the best off-key version of a Celine Dion song. But still, even though I am beyond the target demographic of this show by a couple of decades, I am an ardent fan.

Deep thinker by day. Crappy reality TV show watcher by night.

Why, you ask?

Well, first off, it's terribly philosophical. I love hearing Paula Abdul say things like, "You are more than just you. You are in a zone, which is truly yourself, showing America that you are authentically about your own heart."

Second, there's something fascinating about the explicit manufacturing of mediocrity. It's a show concerned with creating a shiny, middle-class, middle-brow "product" who will sell middling music. It's like McDonalds french fries, bad for you in every way, but somehow irresistable. And if you tuned into that corny finale, you know what I mean. George Michael was there! And Bryan Adams! And ZZ Top! Not only did the show generate mediocrity, it managed to showcase mediocrity from 20 years ago. It doesn't get any better than that.

And the third reason I watch American Idol? Well, frankly, reality shows are fun. Don't tell me you don't watch at least one of these, even if it's Antiques Roadshow. You can kick back after a long day of wrestling with budgets or teaching uninspired students or scraping macaroni and cheese off the ceiling and ponder what Kristi Lee was thinking when she tried to turn " 8 Days a Week" into a country show tune.

So it is without shame that I (and Michael, though he'd never admit it) watched the season ending "boxing match" between the two Davids on Tuesday, and then the two hour (!) finale yesterday. In case you haven't tuned in, the final contestants were a sniffly teenager who said "Gosh!" a lot and a twenty-something, stubbly guy who called himself a "word nerd." And I, with considerable enthusiasm, was rooting for the word nerd.

So here's my confession: Not only did I watch this show every week, but....I VOTED on Tuesday! Oh yes I did. 31 times. I guess I wanted to know what it felt like to "do democracy" like millions of 13 year olds across the country. Just imagine how great it would be if you could vote maniacally for Obama on your cellphone, hitting re-dial with rapid fire.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. After all, most of you come to this site to get the latest update on penguin fornication. I'm outing myself about watching, no -- participating, in the American Idol machine, because I finally feel comfortable with this side of my personality. I embrace it (And while I'm at it, I may as well acknowledge that I enjoyed "Rock of Love," too).

Speaking of embracing, several months ago I received a question from a reader. She asked, "How has being a mother changed you?" It was a complicated question, and I didn't give it a thorough answer. I remember when the boys were tiny, and I kept expecting to wake up from parenthood and be magically returned to my former life (and sleep). There was such as shift between life before and life after kids. So it was interesting last weekend, when the four of us went up to Vancouver for a little vacation. Vancouver is one of those places that I so strongly remember from my life "before." Michael and I loved going up there and just hanging out, as if we really lived there. It was, and is, such a vibrant, thriving, exciting city. But now we have the kids, and we needed to see the place with new eyes. So we exchanged hanging out in cool neighborhoods for hanging out at the aquarium. Finding a fun, funky place for dinner succumbed to finding any place that was willing to serve noodles with butter as a main course.

And I will tell you this: I loved it. I loved it even though I never went shopping. I loved it even though we never went to a bookstore (which I ALWAYS do, no matter where I am). I loved it even though we ate dinner at a terribly uncool pizza place and had lunch at a Canadian version of Applebees. We did mediocre, middle-brow, middling touristy things. And it was wildly fun, and the boys whooped with joy at the hotel elevator and the swimming pool and the kiddie train at the park. So really, the answer to the question from so many months ago is that I am just more comfortable at accepting happiness when it comes, however it comes. And for me, let me tell you, that is a big change.

(Cue up the sappy American Idol power ballad)

Don't Worry. Next week I'll put away the cheese and pull out my usual dose of sarcasm. Or maybe I'll just do a review of the recent season of Celebrity Fit Club.

Photos

I know, I know. I promised to update from the road, and I didn't. And I don't have anything but pictures to share with you today. But never fear -- the kids are back in school, and I'm getting back in my groove. I'll post something about penguins or holidays later in the week.

Cold Water + Kindergarteners = Crazy Fun

Theme Parks + Kindergarteners = Crazier Fun

Family + Kindergarteners = Craziest Fun

The Midwest, Part 2

Michael's parents have an apartment on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Mississippi River. One night, Michael's dad said that if he stands at the window, he can see almost all of the places that have mattered to him over the course of his life. And he wasn't kidding. This is a family that is deeply tied, over generations, to a community.

Sometimes it seems like everyone knows everyone, and this six-degrees-of-separation quality cracks me up. Here's a version of a typical conversation when we visit Michael's family:

Family member: Do you know Peggy O'Flaherty?
Michael: No, but her brother Seamus was in my class.
Family member: Oh! Seamus married Maureen Flynn, and did you know that Maureen's aunt, Maeve, went to college with me?
Michael: I know Maeve. Her cousin, Patrick, and I were altar boys together.

But it's not just about knowing the neighbors. Tradition is at the heart of this culture. Some of those traditions are pretty funny, most notably the annual trip to the Minnesota State Fair. You should have heard Michael's dad wax poetic about his teenage years at the fair. Michael has his memories, too. So far be it from us to deny Blue and Green a chance to participate in this family custom.

When I was growing up in Michigan, I don't remember the state fair being any big deal. I think I went once, ate some junk food, rode some rides. But it wasn't a BIG THING that made me feel connected to my fellow state residents or turned into a ongoing family story. For Michael, though, it's different. When he talks about the fair, his eyes get this faraway look, as if he can taste a bucket of mini doughnuts in his memory.

Before we went, my friend, Sarah, gave me some advice: 1) Bring lots of money; 2) Bring lots of patience; and 3) Bring closed-toe shoes. "Closed-toe shoes?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. "For walking in the barns." I must have looked blankly, because she elaborated. "Poop," she said. "Poop is everywhere."

Well, isn't that fabulous? That's the kind of thing that keeps a person going back year after year. In the end, I did wear appropriate footwear, but we didn't even make it to the barns. We got stuck in the vast snack area. Streets and streets and streets full of food. And there were people dressed up as food! We were just minding our own business, and a guy walked by dressed as a giant ear of corn. Okey Dokey. I suppose it's difficult to pass up the opportunity to wear a good costume.

It was in this food extravaganza that I came to really understand the fair. Here is a place where the uncool becomes cool, where gluttony is celebrated rather than scorned, where you don't have to feel shame about your extra roomy rainbow stretch pants.



And of course, at the fair, even little men get to carry big sticks. Every imaginable food option seemed to be on a stick. It was a joke, but then again, not really a joke. You could get waffles on a stick:



Or spaghetti on a stick:



Or, if you're feeling hip and urban, you can order Puff Daddy on a stick:



Actually, what amuses me about the picture above is the small print in the lower left hand corner. It says, "Sausages made by special women." I love that! How do you get to be a special woman? Sign me up!

But what I enjoyed most about the food section wasn't for sale. Deep in the Dairy Barn, just past the House of Cheese, was a special revolving, glass-encased show room. Inside was the likeness of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. "Who?" you might be asking. "Is it another Barbie?" Nope. Princess Kay is the winner of a special Minnesota pageant. Every year, young maidens from across the state compete to become county dairy princesses. The lucky local winners then vie to become Princess Kay. They are judged on their communication skills, their personality and enthusiasm, and their knowledge of the dairy industry. Moo!

Don't get me wrong -- this is serious business. The St. Paul Pioneer Press claims that Princess Kay has "the equivalent of Queen Elizabeth's role as the physical embodiment of the British Empire." Well, then. If she's so important, why not carve a sculpture of her head out of a 90 pound block of butter?



And you know what's funny? Guess what Princess Kay gets as a reward for all her efforts? Do you think it's money? Scholarships? A new car? Nope. At the end of the fair, she gets to take the butter sculpture home (and presumably, she can butter her toast with that all year long).

When we arrived back at our house after our week in the Midwest, I sat down with Blue and asked him what his favorite part of the trip was. When he answered, he didn't mention the baseball game we went to, or our visit to the science museum. Instead, he said, "I liked the guy in the corn suit." Huh. Maybe on some deep, subconscious level, Blue is already part of the larger tradition. He might be a west coast boy, but Minnesota appears to be in his blood.

The Midwest, Part 1

Do you remember hearing about the heat wave that burned the Midwest this summer? You know, temperatures near 100 with humidity that could drown you? I certainly did, and I used that knowledge to guide my packing for our journey to see Michael's family. I brought the usual summer supplies: sunscreen, bathing suits, sandals, tank tops. But my challenge in that climate is always my hair. I may be a modern girl, but my thick, coarse hair is from the Old World, meant to be covered up by a babushka (Plus, ever since the kids were born, it's gone all curly on me. Has this happened to anyone else?). So I thought ahead, adding my flat iron and a range of straightening potions to our jumble of luggage so that I wouldn't scare all the farm animals.

And so we arrived. There was pouring rain. The temperature was 59 degrees.

This was bad news on a number of levels. The most pressing problem was that we were spending the first part of our trip at "the cabin" in rural Wisconsin, with seven other kids, six other adults, some dogs, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. Now, I think it's pretty funny that they call their lake property a cabin, because that's not what it is. Cabins are made of logs and have no running water. Michael's family owns a big house on a lake, with several bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, 2 televisions, and an air hockey table. (Oddly, I remember that the Michiganders that I grew up with called their large vacation homes "cottages." What's up with that?).

But still, that's an awful lot of people sitting inside watching the flood coverage on TV. Fortunately, efforts were underway to build the world's most delicious vegan Barbie cake. When time came to parcel out slices of Barbie's sugary skirt, the kids argued about who was going to lick the frosting off the now-naked doll. Party games have certainly become more exciting since I was young!

I explained to the family that hanging out in the house sure was fun, but that I had blog fans to entertain. I needed to experience some of the culture of this part of the country, to get a feel for the people and their interests. Michael's father wrinkled his brow and scratched his head, and Michael's sisters looked perplexed. But this is not a group that says no to a challenge. We put on some warm coats and headed out into the rain in search of something Wisconsin-y.

And here's where we ended up:

Now this is my kind of place. We don't really have an equivalent in our city. Sure, we have something that's called a flea market, but it's really a place where hip artists can sell their eco-friendly jewelry. At the Pea-Pickin flea market, you can buy old gas cans:

Or license plates:

Or plastic bull heads:

I asked one of the vendors how he came to sell these types of things. He said that he simply knows people. He scours garage sales and rummage sales and can always find stuff that people will purchase. And lucky for him, I'm not just an anthropologist; I'm also a shopper. Here's what I bought:

For 50 cents, I am now the proud owner of this 1980s vintage choose-your-own-ending teen romance novel (Don't confuse it with its sequel, "Boys! Boys! Boys!"). Here's the book jacket description:

Find your own boyfriends, your own adventures, your own romance -- it's up to you! Every few pages you can make new romance happen -- go back to the beginning and follow the directions until you find just the romance you want. You can spend a romantic year in Venice or move to the breathtaking Colorado mountains! Either way, you'll meet more boys than you've ever dreamed of! Will you go on a moonlight gondola ride with Marzio, a gorgeous Italian artist...climb a sky-high mountain with fun-loving Russell...or explore ancient Italian castles with dark, handsome Dario? No matter what you decide, that special boy is waiting for you. And you can always start a new story...until you find your own true love!

I haven't read it yet, but I think I'd go with Marzio. This book brings back memories of that Intro to Women's Studies class I took in college, where I wrote a research paper comparing teen romance novels to adult romance novels. Seriously. I even got an A minus (Thanks for all that tuition money, Mom and Dad!).

Anyway, the flea market filled my soul, but it didn't fill my stomach. So I asked, "Where does one go to combine wholesome recreation with good local food?" The answer: the bowling alley. The big gaggle of us (minus the dogs) headed out for a competitive game of bumper bowling and some hot plates of cheese curds:

In general, cheese curds baffle me. Who wants to eat something that's called a curd? But you know what, they really hit the spot when you embarrass yourself in front of a large crowd of people. Here's what happened. I was losing, and I thought that a lighter bowling ball might help improve my score. I decided to try out a kids' ball, which is about half the weight of the lightest adult ball. Smiling at my own genius, I put my thumb and fingers in. Then I got into position, whipped my arm back, and....spun around in a violent circle. The ball would not come off my fingers. It was completely stuck. I inspired a whole lot of laughing, and I suppose it was only fair that I could entertain Wisconsin after Wisconsin had given so much to me. But still, bring on those curds, man. I had some pride to mop up.

The next day, we headed back to the city to prepare ourselves for a trip to the Minnesota State Fair. I know you're on the edge of your seat to hear about that, but you'll have to come back next time. Part 2 is on its way.

Time Away

I love my kids. I really do. But I have to say -- 24 hours without them is heaven on earth. Blue and Green had their very first overnight with my parents this weekend, and Michael and I took off for the sunset (see above).

I was a bit nervous about leaving the kids, because I feared an epic scene at the departure. Green, in particular, has a few issues with independence. Well, to be frank, Green has a few issues in general. For instance, he has a bunch of random, unhelpful rules that he follows (e.g. he won't eat peanut butter on sunny days). And he has taken my inclination for the dramatic to a whole new level. Most of the time I compare him to a teenage girl (without the good parts, like having someone to shop with), because he gets irrationally upset over dumb things. When he can't find a pair of socks that is lighter in color than his brother's, he'll scream something like, "I'll never wear socks again! Never!" And then he'll throw himself down onto the bed and sob. Or if his shovel breaks at the beach, and I give him the spare purple shovel, he'll holler,"MAMA! I can't dig mud pits with anything that's purple! I'll never use purple! And I won't come to the beach with you ANYMORE!" What can I say? It's not easy being Green.

Anyway, in preparation for our getaway, I used an old trick I learned from Bill Clinton. If you don't say what IS is, then it's not a problem. Right? So last week I started saying stuff like, "We're going to Grandy and Grandpa's house this weekend, and guess what? Daddy and I are going hiking on Saturday. And then we'll see you on Sunday morning." I just kind of left out the part where we LEAVE THEM BEHIND. This seemed to work! HA! But really, it was my mom who saved the day. On Saturday morning, she started talking about all the presents she was going to give them once Michael and I left. After an hour or so of this, Blue said to me, "Mama, will you disappear now?" So much for grief about being separated from us.

Michael and I took off for Olympic National Park. Our plan was to go out to a groovy hike along the coast. But there were two problems. First was that it would have taken 4 hours of driving. And second was that those four hours of driving would have prevented us from finishing the hike before the tide came in and washed us out to sea. This was very disappointing to me, and I commenced whining. So we stopped at the ranger station, where Michael sized up trails with his favorite ranger. He loves this ranger, and I don't know why (Is it her tight, brown, polyester government pants? Or that sexy Smoky the Bear hat?). It seems like we talk to her every time we go hiking, and she always sends us to a steep trail that doesn't leave the trees. This time was no exception. It did end up at a little lake, and that was nice, but it wasn't a crystal clear alpine lake with huge snow-capped spires on top of it! I threw myself down on the ground and wailed, "I'm NEVER going to ask for help from that ranger again! NEVER!" (No, I didn't really do this. It's a joke. Ha.).

But then we went to Lake Crescent, where we stayed the night. And there were rowboats! Rowboats! This was terrific, because I love boating, and also because there are lots of ghost stories about this lake. Apparently, there are missing people buried in its depths. AND, if you drown in the lake, your body will supposedly turn into soap! Soap! (Think I'm kidding? Go read "The Lady of the Lake: Tale of the Corpse Turned to Soap Keeps Lake Crescent Bubbling with Intrigue," Seattle Post-Intelligencer, October 30, 1990). Anyway, Michael and I went rowboating (well, he rowed, and I took lots of close-ups of his head), and it was fabulous. We didn't see ghosts or corpses, however.

What's really neat about getting away from the kids is that our sense of time changes. I knew that we had been living on their schedule for years, but it's not until we had distance from it that I realized how little time has been our own. Even when we go out, there's still the tick, tick, tick of the babysitter's watch. And the mornings -- we live them in five and ten minute increments. Here's an example of our typical morning:

6 am: Kids wake up.

6:15: 2 bowls of Cheerios are consumed by each child.

6:20-7:30: Kids bug each other and whine at parents.

7:30: Arthur comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I make sandwiches for lunch box (cheese if sunny, peanut butter if cloudy).

8:00: Curious George comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I shower.

8:30: Kids eat second breakfast. I start screeching, "Put your yogurt cups in the trash! Put your spoons in the sink!"
8:35: Kids start getting dressed. I yell, "Don't put your naked butt on your brother's pillow!"

8:45: I yell at kids to put dirty underpants in the hamper.

8:47: Kids pack lunches in lunch boxes, leaving underpants on the floor.

8:50: I wrestle kids to the ground to get sunscreen on them.

8:53: I scream again about underpants.

8:55: Kids fight over whose lunchbox gets to sit in which position by the door. I scream, "We're going to be late for school!! Go! Go! Go!"

9:00: Drive to school, which starts RIGHT NOW.

9:03: Return to house to get forgotten lunch boxes.

Day after day, these same things happen, and the clock starts to become an oppressive tool. But this weekend -- no clock, no lunch boxes, no hamper. That was the biggest anniversary gift of all.

When we returned to my parents' house, the kids didn't even look up from what they were doing. My mom said there wasn't any crying, screaming, fighting, or dirty butts on pillows. There were also meals made up of brownies, lots of new toys, and constant attention. When we got into the car, Blue and Green waved goodbye cheerfully and were appropriately thankful. But once the car turned the corner, Green started to cry. "What's the matter?" I asked. His crying escalated. "What is it?" I repeated. He wailed, "I'm NEVER going home. NEVER! There's nothing fun there!" Sigh. It was time to watch the clock again. All I can say is that I'm counting the hours until we can drop them off again.