Four busses; PTMSC.; beach walk with two kiddos. This evening: our exercise class, then after - a heavy-duty set of margarita-curls at the Mexican restaurant across the highway with Pam and Abbi.


Creepy, creepy. Screaming in agony, or in laughter? You decide.

I'm going to set a new trend for Mommies. I'm going to choose to celebrate the things I get done around the house and ignore the shit I don't. It works really great. Today's feat: cleaning the freezer.


I didn't include a "Before" picture, but it was pretty bad. Thrown out: worm compost, fossilized veggies, breastmilk, quinoa confetti, pie cherries, and frozen soup.

I suppose some of you are thinking, "A placenta has no place in a freezer!" Well first off, have you ever seen a more discreet, tidily-wrapped placenta? And it's probably less scary than some of the stuff lurking in your freezer [smug]. And - perhaps more to the point - what the hell am I going to do with it, anyway (seriously, does anyone have any ideas)?

Maybe some of you are unfazed by the placenta - but wondering about "ice cup". Well, as much as I would like to explain this - or allow my husband to explain this, since it is in fact his invention - I am about to watch the X Files with Cyn and explanations will have to await another day.

Sara and I have forged a connection. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, sometimes it can become the love of a lifetime. Evidence #1: Today after only one brief errand in the ConsumerMecca that is Slobberdale we tandemly experience the instinct to adjourn to a certain trendy restaurant chain for burgers (hint - if you visit their site make sure your sound is turned on while you browse so you can be driven to a murderous rage in mere minutes). Then we both egg each other on to have a drink with lunch. And you know, we weren't dipping our "Sharable-Starter" Towering Onion Rings™ in that tangy Campfire sauce - we were dippin' 'em. 'Cause the double-R is casual like that.

On our next mission I nonchalantly mention my desire to buy new makeup (I am proud to say I have exactly four pieces of makeup - not including lip gloss, and if you're a woman you totally understand that lip gloss doesn't count) and it turns out my dear partner in gratuitous-shopping-crime was thinking along the same lines but had been afraid to drag me along to the mall. Out of the muggy outdoorsies we step into the frigidly air conditioned Macy's where I experience a brief panic that we will not find the crazy cosmetics archipelago swarming with creepy salesclerks eyeing our flaky t-zones like so many sharks. Sara says, "Do you smell science? Look for a lab coat!" Moments later we are being dabbed and daubed by a cute li'l mannequin-like female with a thin veneer of spackle on her face and crisp, white smock (as if to say, "You are in excellent hands with my dermatalogical know-how and skin-disease remedies!"). She's friendly though: "Does your skin normally have shades of pink?" and I'm thinking, "No, that was my lunchtime margarita, bitch!". We purchase our overpriced liniments and powders encased in shiny silver futuristic vials; Sara scores us some samples, and we move on.

The rest of the trip spirals down into "window shopping" that borders dangerously on "overspending"; the fondling of sweatshop goods in babyGap, the trying on of low-rise jeans tight on the ass and insulting to the hips; a foray for espresso. Then it's back to our homes and children, having narrowly escaped blowing next week's paycheck on tiny cargo pants and tennis shoes.

Oh and yeah - we talked about our moms the whole time, too. We're such fucken double-X chromosomes.

I have been teasing my husband about mint. See, a while back my mother brought a fresh sprig up from her garden. My husband carefully tended it in a pickle jar with water - while I scoffed every now and then, just to go after his nuts - until one day Minty was big and strong enough for him to split off a piece and start it, or however you do that sort of thing. Ever since then he's periodically been taking mint plants to the ladies at his work. They are impressed and shower him with compliments - I should point out that a woman doing this would receive far less praise - which apparently went to his head and so he TOOK IT OUTSIDE. The mint plant, that is. He planted it outside in the yard and, what with the clipping of small mint children he'd been doing, it looked pretty assy for a few days. But, with watering and love he seems to be growing a rather fetching mint plant, if I do say so myself (well, I haven't said so - I don't want to give him the satisfaction).

Tonight while I was planning the menu for a get-together at my place tomorrow - I'm making Greek meatballs - it occurred to me that I'd rather automatically left mint off my shopping list because we have it here. About ten minutes ago I said casually to my husband, "Hey, I need some fresh mint for my meatballs tomorrow!" Big. mistake.

His eyes pop and he stares at me with a dazed, intense expression: "I HAVE MINT. In my garden, I have mint growing. You can have it. Would you like me to get you some fresh mint? Wait. But you have to say, 'I'm glad you are growing that garden with mint in it.'"

Please note this "garden" is a 4' by 6' dirt plot with - yes - one mint plant, a stunted nicotiana (that I sprouted, by the way) and two withering bulbs, all with about three square feet of dirt in between.

"OK..." I say, sensing a slightly maniacal edge and deciding to divert the conversation: "Hey, are you going to buy some wine?"

"Who's holding the mint? Is it me or is it you? Maybe you should have to buy the wine."

[Silence].

He continues: "Since I have all the mint maybe you want to buy the wine. Yeah, put on some sandals, go down to the store and buy some wine. And if you want some mint, you have to ask."

[Silence].

"And by the way, I forbid you from buying mint. Because we have it in the yard. If you beg for it."

Why do I sometimes feel like I'm the asshole saying things no one wants to hear? You would think when a group of young mommies gets together without a Y chromosome in sight - especially a group of women who have known one another for years - that occasionally we would be communicating things gritty and real about our marriages to one another. But no. I'm starting to think honest or distressing facts about current marital struggles are off-limits. Much funnier and safer to tell stories about something that happened a long time ago, or something that doesn't really matter ("He came home late from work again, darn him!"). In this way my precious handful of Daddy friends are refreshing because they aren't too competitive, wound tight, withholding, or whatever it is to talk about last night's fight where they threw something at their wife.

My youngest child is 16 months old and my husband and I have had a tough go of it since he was born. Not The Boy's fault, of course. Recently I was relating to a few friends how difficult life has been for us with two children when as I'm speaking I start to feel I have "broken the code". No one is nodding, relating their own experiences, or even making eye contact. I ramble on for about 45 more seconds, trying desperately to communicate something so elusive, so scary, something I'm still confused about - wondering if anyone else there can relate. My audience is lost. Ten seconds later we're telling war stories and no one has shared a single distressing detail from their own life - and I feel oddly like I've said something out of place.

Well, why is it important we talk about this stuff, anyway? Why would we want to share uncomfortable truths? Who wants to hear it? I am starting to wonder. I guess people like it better to suddenly hear that so-and-so are divorcing, so they can say, "Oh my God, I had no idea..." That seems to work well, socially. I remember on Mother's Day this year a few of us were drinking and therefore dishing at a more honest level about our lives. One woman says something about her husband and I catch, "... and of course we've been having trouble lately, or whatever..." before she goes on to relate the rose-colored glasses version of the "cute" fight they had. Less than two weeks later she and her husband were separated, seeking divorce, and seeing other people. Did we there, as her friends, have a responsibility to help her through her (unvoiced) struggle? Does she now wish she could have been honest, and that we could have helped her? Or is everyone happy with the way it went?

I don't know - maybe it's just me (and this other woman, I guess) who have had really, really rotten spots in our marriage, places that scare and confuse us. The truth is - as sarcastically as I meant that last sentence - it's true not everyone has "been there" yet. My girlfriends with one baby? As far as I'm concerned, one baby is a freebie when it comes to marriage - a project. Or at least, that's how it felt for Ralph and I.

Or maybe I'm supposed to stop being "real" and start telling those, "I can't believe he said my ass was big, giggle-giggle!" marriage stories. And when I'm confused, upset, or feeling scared? Sit there silently, withholding my pain, instead of asking for help from and sharing my life with my friends and contemporaries.

In the meanwhile, it's business as usual during my day. Yesterday was another bus day and continued adventures in the Wild Kingdom Hogaboom:

There are two children in this picture. One is actually a diplodocus and - despite her vegetarian nature - about to burst out of the foilage to devour her brother. The prey, perhaps hearing a suspicious rustling in the leaves, turns instinctively toward the source of danger - but he is too late...


The horror! Note the pure, animal joy on the predator's face. I'm going to be sick!!!

I finally put it together that maybe the reason my tummy hurts so often is: my son. Today's featured hijinx:

1. Pooping in the tub - only, of course, while sharing his bath with sister and every bath toy on this planet. Lots of sanitation work for me today.

2. While in the parking lot, crawling out of supermarket cart seat and STANDING UP while holding a balloon and running around in the mini-arena of the cart, causing bitchy old ladies to stare.

3. Punching me in the face and pulling my hair.

Of course as the universal law goes, to balance out the one Evil Spawn you have a Tolerably-Behaving Child. As I type this, my daughter is giving me a ninja tattoo on my left arm: "Mom, it's going to take a little while. You hold still, OK?"

OK, as I typed that (^), she took a picture of her work:

Tres talented, no?

Sometimes having a three-year old is super great.

My mom called this afternoon to concede defeat in the Great Mason Lake Bake-Off '05. I played it cool because the real victory in my mind was not in which pie received the most accolades but in bringing passive-aggressive anti-pie comments to the fore - like, are we gonna have a rumble or not, bitch? Anyway, as my husband said yesterday as my extended family dug into the spoils of our competition: "We're all winners, because we all get to eat pie."


Li'l Alabaster Cheeks. Sorry, we forgot her suit. Looks like nudity again.


My daughter continues on with her photography habit, becoming increasingly devious and/or wise-ass in her choice of opportune moments. This is me after staying up until 2:30 AM watching Sin City (excellent fim, by the way).

In a slighly wacky coda to our weekend, this evening we took Sophie along to an amazing dinner at our friends' house - he a chef, no less - and while we were there our babysitter called with a very calm, collected report that our FUCKING SIXTEEN-MONTH OLD CHILD HAD MANAGED TO GET INTO THE RUBBING ALCOHOL. Of course, if this kind of thing is going to happen it's probably best to get a calm voice mail about it, indicating a call to poison control (Ralph jokes, "Hey, that's more than we would have done!") and a report of no signs of poisoning. Nels is a tuff li'l bastid - tough on himself, his parents, babysitters, and anyone that tries to reel him in.

If you thought I was cool enough to refrain from posting picture after picture of my lame-ass kids doing nothing, you were WRONG. The best thing about this picture is that you can see for yourself the tiny, budding Man Boobs my son is working on.

So, I'm going to see my mom again this weekend at our family cabin on Mason Lake. I'm excited to see her - as always - but I'm afraid she is going to get some schooling this time around and she has no one to blame except her own garbage mouth.

Let me explain: my daughter has been asking my mother to bake her a peach pie. This is mostly due to my berry pie baking of late and tangentially involves an incident a few weeks ago when my mom wouldn't even listen to my description of a new process for a lattice-top on a raspberry pie because her lattice [to quote her prissy voice]: "always turns out perfect". Well, today my dear mother has the cajones to ask me what kind of treatment I recommend for peach pie filling. I'm about to answer and I make a mere mention of crust advice when she again interrupts me and pulls out her big baking cock: "Oh, my pasty is perfect" - and then, once again, queries me for pie-filling recipes. I snap. "No, godddamn it!" I say, "You're on your own. In fact - that's it, I'm calling it: Bake-Off".

Of course she hurriedly backs off, makes excuses, defers my accusation of baking arrogance. It's too late to alter course, though. I'm baking a pie tomorrow, people are going to taste it alongside of hers, and mine is going to be better. After all, now that her trash-mouth has her in trouble, what could she do? Suddenly call off her plans to bake a pie? Crawl under some rock, tail between the legs, throwing the match without a fight? I think not. I will own her ass.

Fifteen minutes after getting off the phone, I'm tersely dictating the grocery list to my husband when I suddenly get a flash of brilliance! "Ralph - pick up some lard. I'm going to do a lard crust." My friend Nancy has always had good luck with those, I think to myself. A perfect coup.

I realize my suggestion has met with stony silence. My husband's eyes raise slowly to mine: "A Bake-Off is not the time to experiment," he says flatly, somewhat aggressively.

"But I know it can't go wrong!" I raise a fist in the air.

"You've shot yourself in the foot with that kind of thinking before. Cook what you know."

I am cowed. Faced with his steely glare I back down from my hasty pastry plan. No matter, though. I have other strategies to employ. With the help of the produce grocer at the co-op and a purchase of a pie bird I am almost guaranteed success.

I try at least once a week - sometimes twice - to take the bus all day instead of driving. It's a commitment of more time spent and less errands accomplished. But also of course, less gas wasted and fewer contributions to global warming (oh yes, I give a shit). Today with my purchase of a monthly pass (the driver prorated it for me, nice of her) it now moves temporarily out of the oh-my-god-where-are-six-quarters-we've-only-got-two-minutes?! realm. I think I'll make a lanyard for my pass to wear around my neck like the cool transit regulars do.

At our playgroup (this morning's destination) I found myself in several of those conversations that start out with, "How are you doing?" and end up in the dire or perplexing details of failing relationships, parenting dilemmas, or low-grade depression. In the space of a few minutes my friend D. was suddenly telling me how awful she was feeling the last two months. She and her husband had decided to wean their youngest off her pacifier and the child had been screaming herself to sleep ever since. When D. offhandedly mentioned how she knew the pacifier habit had gone too far - the little girl had taken to sleeping with not only a pacifier in her mouth but TWO clutched in her hands - I started laughing nonstop. "Three nipples - even nighttime nursing babies don't get that!" I reassured D. that sometimes being a parent meant making choices our kids didn't like and from what I can tell, it only gets more complicated. I know D. and know she's a good Mama. I am still laughing though, thinking of this sweet little girl clutching her hoard of rubber nipples in her sleep like some tiny binky dragon.

After my children had trashed our hosts' home and consumed near a full box of CheezIts (nothing but the best!) we headed out to catch the bus. It's so hard to - from across the aisle on public transit - subtly tell your child to STOP PICKING HER NOSE. Of course, she was keeping good company with a few other Bus People, from what I could tell.


Vigilantly pointing out our next stop, wearing Mama's sweater, comfortably in command.


Vigilantly snoring. ... and percolating on a batch of Vile Anal Slurry that, fortunately, he saved up for the Husband to attend to when he got home from work.

Last night a friend and I attended a postpartum / pregnant mama exercise class. I guess I'm not sure why I attended - my youngest being sixteen months old so the term "postpartum" being a stretch - except that I had heard apparently there are these muscle groups in your tummy, back, and bottom as opposed to treacherous flaccid areas that will let you down humiliatingly when you require their assistance. When I heard this rumor I also vaguely remembered once being able to do a sit-up and I thought I might attempt to reclaim something along those lines.

At 6 PM about nine women falling into the categories of pregnant / trying-to-get-pregnant / postpartum assembled in a carpeted room with a small inventory of weights, chairs, large exercise balls, and stretchy rubberbandy thingies - all equipment that I have associated with females who think that somehow if you have enough friendly-looking and brightly colored toys you won't have to work up a sweat to get in shape, heavens no. Up until this moment I had only used an exercise ball to bounce on hyperactively at the Open Gym uptown, holding my drooling son against my boobs as he blissfully would grunt, "uh, uh, uh" to the tempo of my bouncing. I also am the type who can't hear phrases like "OK ladies, let's put our balls against the wall!" and, "I notice some of you have bigger balls than others!" spoken by a peppy instructor without giggling like an asinine 12 year-old boy.

However, as of this morning I have to begrudgingly admit that the physical therapists seem to know their stuff. My body aches in artfully subtle ways and my posture is 1/4" corrected, due to repeated but "gentle" abuses on said rubber-balls. My legs and ass are really pissed that I went macho and did ALL sets of lunges instead of doing something sensible like sitting it out and having a cigarette. This morning I went on the normal Tuesday Fort Worden hike to stretch out a bit - lugging my two children by stroller and carrier as usual - and got to experience the sweat and slight thrill of serial corporeal abuse.

The real hero in this story is my friend Abbi, who four months postpartum was motivated to learn to pump breastmilk, shove a hungry infant and toddler into her husband's arms five minutes after he got home from work, stuff herself in some sweats and funky black "athletic" shoes (the only ones she had), and get her go-go ass out there. I guess she knows what our fellow classmates, the newly-preggo and first-time parents, haven't yet discovered - that NO ONE takes care of Mama if Mama doesn't take care of Mama.

As for me, I'm the one walking down the street rubbing my ass and using a handrail when going down stairs. I just *know* this is all going to pay off when I can crack a walnut in my cheeks, though.

Today may be the day I've made the most mistakes recently. Little ones and medium-sized ones. Mistakes concerning friendships, family, and anything else that might matter to me. Right now I want a break. I want my tummy to stop hurting. I want the slow-motion images of my son falling from a surface 4 feet off the ground to evaporate from my brain. I want a very important person in my life to stop being cruel to me. I want grocery money for my kids and I.

The kids and I took a walk down to Husband's workplace this morning. The walk was fabulous. There was a bit of cooling fog about - an ephemeral reprieve from the oppressive heat, set to burn off for this afternoon when my son and I sit around the living room in our underwear, chained to my hot little house since the Girl is taking a sticky, three-hour marathon nap - and a lot of boatboys down at the marina, shirts off at 9 o'clock scrubbing paint and hauling plywood around with their buddies and mutts. Husband walked us back to the Park and Ride through the lagoon trail. I used to ride my bike on this trail every day to work when I first moved here. Something about the time of year, the fresh wet smell of fog - doses me with nostalgia for those days. Our daughter dives fearlessly into the tall rush grass, attempting to chase down snakes and beetles. A mama deer strolls the shores on the far side of the water and a heron flies off from ten feet away, startled, with an ungracious honk.

We return home, get The Boy down for a nap, and huddle fearfully in the house. What possible plan can we have to escape the heat and sick intertia of a day already going so sour?


Three-year olds have uncomplicated "owies", but may also feel the need to document them for public record.

Dear Ex-Fellow Collegiate,

We've known one another for ten years now and been friends - to use the term loosely - for eight of those years and it is time to end it. A conversation we had Thursday - four months since we last spoke - put the nail in the coffin for me.

Let me explain: part of the reason we hadn't spoke in four months is that some time ago I removed you from my IM "Buddy list" since it had become entirely too annoying: the temptation to click on your alias and try to initiate a real conversation. I would inevitably be disappointed by your superficiality, get conflicting messages on what exactly my friendship means to you (this, at least, has been consistent for eight years), or be subjected to confusing details of your dysfunctional relationship of the last five years and asked to weigh in on the meanings therein. In fact, this latter aspect was the entire breadth of our conversation a couple days ago, without so much of a "How's your husband and kids / What have you been up to lately?" throw-away line (you did dispense with a quick "what's new?" before you launched into your own melodrama). I don't want to disparage your struggles right now - I meant it when I said I had compassion for what you were going through. It's just that the one-sidedness of our conversations has been there for years now, whether you were going through a personal crisis or not.

The fact is, I have cared for you over the years and gotten zero evidence that it goes the other way. Maybe the biggest irritation of all is not only do you not ever, ever ask how I'm doing and really listen - and you haven't visited me and my family once since I've lived here - and the one time we were supposed to get together in Portland you ditched me - No, the biggest irritation is that in the four years I've been a parent you have not once spoken or typed either of my children's names. Now, I don't expect anyone who's not myself, my husband, or my mother to give a goddamn about when my kids have a birthday party or potty train or any of that. I don't force my snot-nosed brats on anyone except those who willingly visit this site - but in the last four years I would have liked some acknowledgment that they are important to me and they are what I do these days. Especially since I've shown nothing but polite - and genuine, as often as possible - interest in your acquisition of new four-or-two-wheeled toys, "high-school girl parties", and creepy phone pictures of unwitting co-eds on the USC campus (the most recent communique before Thursday).

Since this is a send-off of sorts, I just want to say that the affection I held you in lasted a long time, considering the lame-duck friendship we have had. I had a lot of great times with you back in school (times that make me sweetly sad to think of, now) and we share the same sense of humor - if have virtually nothing else in common. In the first years after school I wrote you regularly and really cared (and prayed) about your major work-related injury and your relationships with women, if I didn't always understand them. I have also always had the tiniest crush on you - one that was never consummated in any way, and wouldn't have worked out in any capacity - a small amount of sexual attraction that can and did go a long way in my enjoyment of you. I guess I stuck around all this time because I have only picked up a small handful of friends in the ten years since high school, and I tend to care about them as much as they let me. But there is a point to cut someone loose, whether they know it or not, and even if it doesn't change my life - lived, for so long now, with no real intimacy shared between us - for better or worse.

Obviously, you aren't meant to see this letter; I would be surprised if you were keeping up with me at all. If you do read this I want to apologize for any hurt, surprise, or anger you may feel. If you feel I am being unfair (as you surely would feel, if you saw this), please re-read Paragraph #2 and #3. Otherwise, let's not make a scene over this and move on with our lives.

Sincerely, K.

Labels: L2A

There is something about having my parents around where I revert to a lazier, more spoiled, less competent self. I beg them to look after my children - running full-bore into the street, or clamoring for candy - bitch at my husband for every little thing, yell at my kids like a white-trash prole, and accept their sponsorship (read= "cold, hard cash") on iced coffee and fancy dinners. I am ever-so-grateful for their help, though. The hour following breakfast today (ham, eggs, and homemade apple pie!) where my parents looked after the kids I almost felt a delicious sense of decadence as I was allowed to wash, dry, put away my dishes, sweep my floor, and put away laundry unmolested and without the sounds of kids screaming! Yes, I set my sights high these days.

I have had Badly Drawn Boy's "Silent Sigh" stuck in my head for about two days. Just by typing that, I am violating my "song lyrics are lame blog posts" rule. However it was funny at the Jefferson County fair to be positive that was the song I was hearing - only to listen more closely and have the tune melt into some new country bullsh*t.


Grandpa acts like a tough old cuss, but I notice he always smiles at my childrens' antics - in this case, Sophie demonstrating her photographic prowess.

I apologize in advance to anyone reading this who may be sensitive to raw language or feelings, or who was hoping for a little light reading as they ate their bagel at their desk on their lunch hour. But:

My fucking child is being unreasonable.

To clarify, Child #2 is the problem this week. Although Child #1 is also cranky and sick with a cold and isn't much help. Anyway, my son is getting several teeth at once - including a painful duet of canines and premolars. He also has a cold and chapped cheeks. Still, how much screaming, nipple-biting, and back-arching-in-carseat tantrums is Mama supposed to handle before going nuts and throwing something or someone through a window? My solution this morning: load him up with cold medicine and put him in the cab of the truck while I took a five-minute shower. Yes, the emergency brake was on, and yes, fuck you if you are judging me. Feel free to come over anytime and wrangle the little hellion while I fritter away my time doing silly things like eating, pooping, or getting my other child fed and dressed.

I just got a call and my mom is coming up to visit. Mommmmmmeee! I am going to ask her to take me out to dinner and take care of my kids and rent the X-Files with me and cyn.

The day before yesterday I gave Sophie our digital camera and she took about 75 pictures. With a fair amount of skill, I might add. She marched right up to people and snapped shots.


Showing good form, at least considering this is her photographic debut at 3 years old.

You know how hard it is to get unaffected poses when you're taking a picture? Apparently, when faced with a three-foot-tall photographer, people don't feel as self-conscious:







Enough barfy bragging on my child's mediocre accomplishments. I leave you with a final photo from our idyllic summer outings:


Sophie at the beach, on a hunt for tiny little crabs and sea anenomes.

Last night at 2:30 AM my son woke up yelling his head off. My husband has night duties with the children - this tradition of sorts started when Sophie was 13 months old and we were night-weaning but has lasted to being a fixture of inequity in our marriage that he bears well for the most part. Of course, when things aren't going well for him I can be counted on to get up and help settle the needy child. Last night was one of these nights. After what seemd like hours listening to Nels cry (it was probably only about three minutes, though) I dragged myself out of bed to see What's The Problem. When I took Nels from my husband it seemed obvious to me the little guy was hungry. Hungry at 2:30 AM? OK, whatever - he was probably trying to grow three inches in his sleep or something. We moved into the living room and got him a snack and a big sippy cup full of milk. He sat on my lap, bright-eyed, flushed-cheeks, so happy to be near me, sucking his milk down. I smelled the back of his neck and held him close, greedy for a cuddly version of my son who normally struggles like a juvenile wolverine to get out of my arms and into trouble.

As I sat there with my thirsty boy on my lap, my husband dozing on the couch next to us, I felt so resentful about the time that is passing before my eyes. In this small window of early morning when I have the grace to be content and enjoy this moment with my child I know that in only a few minutes we will all be moving on to resume our sleep and waking up to the frenetic daily pace of our lives. Here my son is - one day past 16 months and he will never be this young, beautiful in exactly this way, again. I feel this odd double-vision too as I sometimes forget which child it is that is the baby, and where those months went. My children's infancies are being devoured by time, faster than I ever would have thought possible. When you become a parent so many people will tell you "they grow up so fast" - but no one tells you how bitterly unfair it is, and how one never gets used to the pace even as it roars ahead of you in the wee hours of the night.

Today turned out great for Ralph and me. I don't know how it went for the kids - since they were "looked after" for the whole day. My second sentence explains the first, I think.

We went to a very loverly company picnic at Owen Beach in Point Defiance park:

I just like this picture, probably because these guys are all in the air like a beautiful, yet clumsy and dumb, ballet. Ralph's coworker Nick is there on the far left. He's recently single, ladies - yum!


Ralph and Nick's finale. That's Ralph on the left doing what he later described as "a suave James Bond barrel roll" in hopes of salvaging some dignity after getting fiftieth place. Yes, I said salvaging some dignity.


... And the self-inflicted embarrassment continues. Can you believe there wasn't even beer at this picnic, yet here I am participating in this contest? All I can say is, the game MC was very convincing. Marie is taking a great picture of my ass for the company newsletter, I'm sure.

You know, when I say I have no idea how my kids' day went, it is a lie. They were cared for by our good friend Michelle, whom Nels has known his whole life and Sophie almost half of hers. She took them to the beach, the park, made art and bracelets, fed them, and rocked them to sleep. In short, about 30% better care then they get from their Mama.

As I type this my husband, son, and daughter are all upstairs. Ralph's on the guitar and he and Sophie are singing Frente's cover of "Bizzare Love Triangle." I love that she knows the words to stuff like that, and not one single Barney / Dora / Fiddley-fuck Kiddie Show tune.

domesticity from last night:

Paella.


Kitsch'n curtains.

I don't expect any of you non-sewers can understand the LUST I felt when I saw this seafoam-green 50's Japanese print. For me, fabric shopping = porn.

Overheard at the park today (Lupe, Shelly, and Sue instead of their real names, although why I'm protecting gossiping trollops such as these I don't know!):

Shelly: "Oh, so I totally think [Young Mom X] is knocked up."

Sue: "Did she say something to you?"

Shelly: "Oh no. I saw her at the Breastfeeding Potluck yesterday and I got that vibe."

[laughter]

Lupe: "Well, I don't know her very well, so..."

Shelly [laughing]: "Oh, that doesn't stop me from accusing someone!"

Lupe: "... well I just mean I don't know enough about her body type to compare."

Shelly: "Oh, it isn't about a body changes. It's how a woman looks when she's first pregnant..."

Sue: "- like she's keeping a secret?"

Shelly: "... no, like she looks like shit, or at least compared to the last time you saw her. It's when these women get all cute and sassy. Then you know her man is about to bring her low by knocking her up!"

[laughter - a bit pained]

Shelly: "I'm not kidding! Last Mother's Day [Woman B] was talking about how good her life was and she was all trim-looking and cute and happy and I thought to myself, 'She's going to get pregnant if she doesn't watch it!'"

Lupe turns to Shelly: "So me and [Husband] were talking about this last night... what do you think about me?"

Shelly: "I think you're looking pretty cute and put together and you'd better watch out."

For a town of 8,000, it seems amazing my lovely burg should have two sushi restaurants. Well, we don't. A much-loved favorite shut down a few months ago so tonight for date night CK and I headed down to the Bainbridge Island Sushi House. When my husband heard we were planning a two-hour roundtrip just for this particular culinary weakness he said, "You guys are such raw fish snobs." He thought I didn't detect the pure sarcasm and loathing in his voice at the thought of us eating fish, raw or otherwise. Just for him, I had a roll with extra-tentacles and mackerel that had been laying out on the curb all day. Then I made out with him when I got home.

Sushi chefs always seem like prostitutes or strippers or something. They are on display for all the rubberneckers to watch and usually go about their business, tight-lipped and slightly irritated. I hate it when people watch me make food, unless it's something easy like a peanut butter sandwich. Poor blokes. Anyway, then they've got to deal with the overly verbose (usually single) gents and ladies who drink sake, order one sushi delight one after another, and blah-blah-blah to the chef about their work as an audiologist (true incident from tonight) or their rare knee-tumor surgery (totally fake incident I just made up). Then after one hundred gerzillion hours of chef-harassment they leave grandly with a nod and a, "Domo arigato, [insert Japanese name here]!" for the benefit of the rest of us. I imagine that [insert Japanese name here] is totally irritated that half of his/her job includes being friendly to all these dorks. If I was in their position after a hard day at work I'd lean in to Mr. or Ms Lonelyheart and lovingly brandish my sharp knife and say softly, "Why don't you shut the fuck up there, pardner" with of course a big toothy smile for the rest of my customers.

I really can't decide if gringos speaking a word or two of native language to a restaurant worker is respectful or cheesy. Maybe one of you ethnic food industry workers reading this should write and let me know. Of course I may be the wrong person to ask; for some reason whenever I am about to leave any worldly food establishment I always want to blurt out, "Muy bien!" I judge myself harshly not because I only know some Spanish and therefore if I'm not speaking English, I must be speaking Spanish - but because I always want to compliment the food and service. What a colossal kiss-ass I am!

My husband is right outside the window chopping something with an axe. I am afraid to meet his eyes through the glass. Maybe he's finally lost it.

Overheard today: "No no no... We don't pet the cat with a crescent wrench." And last week: "Honey, be careful with how you're shoving his head to the floor." Followed a few seconds later by, "I really don't want you whipping him in the face with that". The absolute weirdest thing is that it is only a small miracle I even hear these comments as they sound exactly as if Ralph is saying, "Would you mind passing the salt?".

Tomorrow we're having a parade in town for World Breastfeeding Week. I'm thinking about cutting out two circles in posterboard and putting "the twins" on display in all their glory. I'll definitely have pictures to post, and I'll try to get a couple good sets of boobs.

And finally... I made Sophie a little somethin' today.