Life is Art

This morning the kids and I hit the beach for about three hours. I am so fortunate that I live only a short drive or bus ride away from a beautiful, sunny, and near-uninhabited beach. Little Nels is getting a tan complete with a white bottom from all his time spent in swim trunks (yes I put sunscreen on my children; fuck off). The beach is easy, safe, free, and healing. The children and I worked on building a "shelter" out of giant logs of driftwood that in a Mama-Corner (TM) of my mind I grimly picture rolling askew, falling suddenly, and smashing a child appendage. Nevermind that this has not happened to me or anyone I know; being a Mama means no matter how sensible you used to be before children you now have your own special crazy side which fully must explore the world's dangers to your progeny at all times, even while seeming outwardly relaxed. No wonder so many of us are nighttime alcoholics!

A three-hour beach trip means a nap equivalent from my children: today I filled that time with the obligatory dishes and tidying then, sewing (yay!)! A trip to the store where my children humiliated me with their bad behavior (for a change) then home to try to cook with a clinging two year old attempting to wield a knife. This evening in in addition to my regular family fare (soft-tacos with breaded tofu, chicken, slaw, tomatoes, and grated cheese for the undiscerning dairyphiles in my care) Ralph and I also prepared a double batch of real mac and cheese, two loaves homemade bread *, and - the coup de grace - thirty corndogs. The extra food is of course not for my family; I am once again cooking for the Farm tomorrow. In some kind of sick one-upmanship I have been compulsively volunteering to cook frequently (a duty many of my fellow Farmers either dread or simply avoid entirely) then each time designing more and more elaborate measures to take in food prep (as if cooking for ~30 isn't challenging enough in that tiny funky kitchen). I'm not sure why I do it and do it so balls-out - the glory? Wanting to be loved? Anyway, next week look for Barbecued Mango and Truffle River Trout, Goat Cheese and Sundried Tomato Quiche, Grilled Vegan Potstickers with Sassy Teriyaki Sauce, and for me to stab myself in the face with self-induced group cooking stress. But for now: corndogs. **

* This evening while at the store my husband ended up behind an older gal lamenting that no one bakes bread... her grandmother used to bake bread... she no longer knows how... no one knows how! My husband pipes up: "I cook my own bread," he offers. "I use a breadmaker, but I cook my own bread." "Oh," the old biddy replies, "But no one knows how to do it the real way anymore." My suggested response: "Yeah - and also no one gets polio anymore you dried-up old twat!" Man! If there's anything that gets on my tits it's the "I miss the good ol' days" dirge.

** Fifteen nitrate-free beef, fifteen veggie - in case you were curious.

Last night my husband uncharacteristically drank too much while we were at a party. I did not realize he was doing this; we had an agreement I would be the designated drinker this time around. As it turned out, I did not take on this opportunity so at 11:27 PM when the coinciding events of A. my hostess discovering all the beer was gone and B. my Beloved came stumbling / falling down the hill and into the firepit I was shocked and (fortunately) very sober. It fell to me then to sort the kids and a weaving 205 lb. man in pitch black to our van then go back and disconnect the A/V equipment Ralph had brought over so we could watch an outdoor movie via laptop-projector combo (this last duty was the only one I was slightly irritated at; I hate wires and cords as a rule).

People who get drunk on beer shock and awe me. I know it's possible; I've even done it myself (long, long ago). But I can't get my mind around it anymore. These days if I merely think about that level of inebriation fueled by beer my tummy groans and grows flaccid, my bladder becomes hot and agitated. I can't remember what that kind of drunk feels like. No, I am a sucker for a nice cocktail (or two, or...?) and the proverbial "glass of red wine" (why don't I just put it in a quart-jar and be done with the refill thing?) so I do in fact remember what "being drunk" is like (let's see, one week ago would do it). I just don't have the stamina for the beer-drunk. But I do appreciate the effort that goes into it.

Back to my evening: after a quiet ride home we pull into the driveway just around midnight. I sort out two sleepy but happy children (one furnishing a "bonus" soiled diaper) and help tuck Ralph into bed. I lay Nels in his toddler bed and head downstairs to wash out the diaper. Back upstairs where I tiptoe into our bedroom and detect the forms of husband and oldest child under the covers. "Ralph, are you going to sleep in here with Sophie?" I whisper. No answer from my spouse, but "Yeah!" whispers li'l Nels - another fugitive from Mama who must've sped out of his room quickly when I left and now nestles contentedly in his father's armpit. He watches me with bushbaby-bright eyes as I laugh softly and lean down for a kiss.

Sophie is awake and patiently waiting for snuggles so I ship The Boys into the kids' room. They go without a fuss; I wash up and slip into PJs, then crawl into bed with Sophie for a while before heading back to the kids' room to shuffle Nels into his own bed and thereby spare Ralph a stiff back in the morning. To my surprise as I lean over them both Ralph jolts from a deep sleep into a firm ass grab (a reflex one has to admire from a sleep-deprived and severely intoxicated male). I dodge the bullet, slip away, and transfer the littlest Boy into bed; tuck them both in and make my way back to my bedroom.

My daughter is forgoing her thumb-sucking as best she can and tonight she seems hungry for stories of family lore. She asks in proper order to be regaled with my two pregnancies and births, starting with before I got married. I tell the long versions of my birth stories and occasionally drift off, thinking, only to be interrupted by, "Now tell the part where you named the baby," or the like. Everytime I tell Sophie stories I remember something new about my births, like my mother cooking an amazing fettucine primavera when we came home from the hospital, or the blue knit dress I wore while laboring there, surely looking like a horrific tent-like beast. Sophie's little brain whirrs and her eyes darken as she imagines birth, imagines babies - imagines her own hard little head one time being soft enough to pass gently through my body and into this world.

Finally the light goes out, I wrap my arms around my daughter and she brings her head close to mine. Sleep for the four of us until the morning.

It seems the members of Casa Del Hogaboom are all experiencing their own separate trials. I have given up sugar (successfully for a week and a half); Ralph forgoes smoking and reinvigorates his running career; and yesterday Sophie was admonished by the dentist for thumb-sucking. Nels, well, I'd like him to give up the hitting and loud angry yelling he does. He doesn't seem to agree with me yet. The li'l chili pepper!

My son is capable of very strong feelings and sometimes he displays them in an "unacceptable" way. This is new territory for me. Sophie's losses of temper are often relatively restrained, rarely violate others' rights, and are followed almost immediately by remorse or a breakdown of sorts. But I know in my heart my son does not truly see why he should not, for instance, fling a ninja star into my eye. It's been very interesting to think of ways to process his behavior by first and foremost acknowledging his feelings rather than skipping straight to the part where I tell him he's being unacceptable - all the while I fret that if he can't learn to control his temper this will cause him a lot of grief later in life.

His temper outbursts are often simply comical. I mean come on - he is just so small and fierce! Today post-nap he was grousing and yelling at everything Sophie did (she was quite civilly sharing nachos with him). I came into the room they were at and said (diplomatically), "OK now, it's time to settle down!" He whipped his little head around and glared at his sister and said, "YEAH! YOU ... NEED ... TO ... SETTLE DOWN, SOPHIE [ pronounced "Dophie! ]!" [ Awkward pause ] I say, "No Nels, actually you need to settle down," (trying not to laugh) and he aims his blonde curls of fury at me and yells, "YOU ... SETTLE ... **DOWN**!!" all "angry"-like. He gets as big as he can and he's mad. He's still pretty small, though.

Later this evening while grocery shopping in the co-op he completely chewed Ralph out for some horrific crime (I think Ralph had buckled him safely in the shopping cart) and hollered all throughout the store. I ended up holding him against my breast (tenderly, not in a "smothering" kind of way) which helped calm him so I wasn't getting glares from the childless shed-folk purchasing their kefir and incense. Then at dinner Nels would only accept steak, or coleslaw, or potatoes that I handled / cut up / discussed. Daddy, do not make eye contact.

We decided this evening: he's going Oedipal on us. Oh well, it's nice to be loved, I always say.

In the past it has seemed to me that as a mother of small children it is somehow demeaning how often I find myself talking about, cleaning up, cleaning after, and defining words for all the waste products that come out of or off of our bodies. This sense of subjugation goes back to our culture's deep-rooted prejudice that Mama work = shit work. Well, I'm trying to change that view and think of myself as being a custodian to and friend of our bodies. I'm trying to ask myself why I should agree with the thought process that the concepts, duties, and self-care of our bodies' digestive and reproductive systems are demeaned or joked about in our culture. Eating when hungry? Fine. Showering when dirty? Absolutely OK. Shitting and wiping your ass? Silly, funny, or disgusting.

At least we moms have one another. In a gathering of Mamas no one is likely to publicly shame you by crowing "TMI!" when you talk about your child shitting her pants while putting a shift in at the naturopathic pharmacy (real example courtesy of the lovely Sara) or a lengthy discussion regarding the words one's family uses to discuss our elminiations. See, if we Mamas don't actually have similar stories to tell we know that we someday will and can listen intently to our provided peer-education. These are issues that, as it turns out, matter a lot in our lives and are going to inform our children on just how much pride, shame, joy, or disgust to feel about self-care.

So with that prelude (and warning those who are less enlightened than I in sharing these stories with one another), here's my Mama BM story o' the day. Today while at my farm workshare my 4-year-old daughter asks me for assistance to use the facilities (our composting toilet that on warm muggy days like today has a ripeness to it). First, she asks me to hold her nose for her while she pees (I decline). Then she sits on the pee side to do her thing and suddenly panics because "Poop is coming out!" (again, for those who don't know, composting toilets have two chambers - one for pee and one for poo with corresponding treatment of plants / dirt). So we halt and move her over to the poo side. She settles in and then in a few seconds panics again and urges, "Mama, hold my punani!" * I'm thinking, What the ... ? It takes me a while to realize that with the bodily cooperation to make poo she is also peeing, and she is concerned she's not supposed to urinate on that side of the toilet. I laugh and tell her it's OK to pee AND poo on the poo side. A bathroom-elimination logic that never would have occurred to me; as the mother of young children I find myself often going back to Square One on these issues.

* This word is parlance for "vagina" in Casa Del Hogaboom.

Last night my husband got a call from one of our dearest friends. This friend had accidentally amputated his own index finger and additionally hurt his arm badly with a saw while cutting a fence. When Ralph told me this I felt this wave of sadness and a sinking feeling in my stomach. The nearest episode I could remember feeling this way about was when my uncle had a horrific bicycle accident and lost his spleen, years and years ago. In these situations my mind immediately goes to the trauma and loss of the moment, the rush to the hospital or emergency room, the painful healing time passed, all as I unawares watched movies with my family or scrubbed pots and pans in my sink while belaboring the mundane nature of my housework or what I'd cook for dinner the next night.

This morning, perhaps in unintentional sympathy although for no conscious reason I can think of, while working at the farm I cut myself three times on my left hand in about fifteen minutes. The third time was the worst. A group of about six of us had been standing around pulling, clipping the root from, and then trimming the greens off kohlrabi (a vegetable I have almost as little respect for as rainbow chard) to set aside for harvest. The little fish-monger's knife I'd been loaned looks cheap but is evilly serrated and sharp, biting me twice. Each time I slow my work to a more sedate pace. Then just as I ask a fellow worker more about his permaculture project I slice deep into the side of my index finger. The work party is listening and this man continues to talk to me about perennial mainteneance as I jump and stick my finger in my mouth. My body floods with very minor shock. I taste the grit of dirt and the gagging taste of blood. A lot of blood. I try to reassemble myself and keep working, but I'm bleeding enough that the beautiful purple orb I'm holding grows slick and fat, hot drops of bright red are splatting on my jeans. Still no one notices, and in these brief seconds I feel like a schoolgirl with wet pants waiting for a teacher to notice, take pity, and dismiss me. Finally (this is probably only ten seconds later) I dismiss myself. "Are you okay?" my cohorts ask, now staring at my hand hot with blood while I shake it off into the grass. "I'm fine, fine, I just can't ignore how much it's bleeding," I reply as I set off back across the field to the sunroom where we (hopefully) keep sterile bandages, and feeling very, very foolish.

As it turns out, there is little chance for much sterility and no chance for what I really need now: clean, dry gloves (which I will now wear to keep the wound from getting packed with soil) and my own knife which I now know I should have been using in the first place. I make the administrative decision to run home and back in fifteen minutes. My hand hurts: the initial sting now giving way to a deepset throb. But the most overwhelming feeling I have as I'm driving off the farm to home is one of defeat and shame. I realize that to me somehow in the work environment someone who hurts themselves is a liability; a person who for the sake of shortcut or machismo does not employ training or common sense. The brief period I will not be working - equivalent in duration to a bathroom trip or cigarette break - now looms in my mind as an episode where I am not carrying my share.

I also realize that I hate it when my hands are hurt. My hands are my livelihood. I hate it when they are rough or have hangnails and certainly an actual injury gets in my way and feels oddly unhygienic. I think of all the organs of my body that I wish to maintain good care for, it's my hands that come to mind as my primary tool (Sweet Lord Jesus, do not test me on this by sending me some horrific trauma I have heretofore not experienced. Thank you for my good health and strong, capable body).

By the time I drive back onsite (washed, bandaged, gloved, and armed with the correct tool) I feel ready to work again and glad I took care of myself properly. I check back in at the sunroom and head out to the field. On the way out I pass Penny, who is also sporting a bloody hand from the same knife and I direct her to my bandage supply. And as much as I'm sad she has hurt herself, I am also inescapably glad I was not the only one to display tool incompetence.

Penny and I share a set of gloves for the next task - weeding, and then clearing rotten cabbage out of a bed - before breaktime.

I have not decided if it's preferrable to be sober or drunk at a party of drinkers. I usually avoid this dilemma by offering to be the designated driver. This is a vocation that, in my peer group at least, is lauded as an admirable sacrifice, a necessary evil, and assumed to be a commitment to having less fun than other revelers - but occasionally I've noticed this position remains vacant and no one talks about this. Now don't get me wrong, I love the sauce. Love it! But I value being alert and in possession of my faculties (such as they are) as well. Tangential to my greater preferences, in the case where I am at a gathering and have elected not to imbibe, I often as not end up in conversations such as the following:

Him:
"See, I don't like to see a guy kissing a guy. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't have anything against it, I mean, I don't think it's wrong or anything... [ ed. - I will edit the comments on the subject of homophobia for brevity. He went on at much greater length, trust me. ] ... See, here's what I think about it... I used to belong to this group... This group, they were called the Varmint Hunter's Society, * and what this consisted of, is going out in a field, and you take a rifle, and you wait for a squirrel to pop his head up... and you shoot the squirrel. See, now I think the same guy that would be kissing another guy, he would find it offensive that I liked to do this thing. The thing with the varmints. And I wouldn't want him telling me what to do. So I don't tell him what to do. You know what I mean? I mean, I think everyone should decide for themselves what's right or wrong... [ ed. - Dear reader, be informed that I am shortening his story up significantly in the interests of your viewing attention span. I'm sure you get the general drift ]."

Me:
"Yeah, yeah, cool. I get it. .... So, what about a gay varmint?"**

I can't help but feel slighty resentful of all the time I have spent listening to someone in this sort of a scenario. I mean, I don't mind being on the quiet end of a conversation. But getting cornered and forced into hearing someone's "life philosophy", especially given while they're slightly hampered and significantly plodding about it and definitely not listening to anything you might offer (their own sloppy monologue taking precedence) -- well, it gets a little wearying and especially so when it occurs twenty-five times in one party.*** And I hate to say it but specifically in the case of some men, they don't even have to be drunk to treat me as if I was a vase of flowers or some mealy-mouthed wallflower incapable of holding my own in a conversation (I am neither). At this juncture I'm thinking specifically about talking with another man at this same party who at one point asked me my age - it's 29 - and then repeated several times, "Wow, you don't look a day over twenty-seven!" as if this was a solid-gold compliment for me to tearfully hang onto as I plied my hag-like wrinkles in the vanity mirror that night. At the parties I've been to in the last year where I am meeting new people, do you know how many times a man has asked me what I do, how I was educated, or what the names or ages of my children are? Zero. P.S., men at large - if I ever am single again (God forbid) a simple pause in your drunken ramblings as to a line of inquiry into my life will probably render me so stunned and grateful I will administer an under-the-table handjob as a matter of gratuity.

(As I write this it occurs to me that given my own proclivity for conversation and general know-it-all-ness people may feel the same way about listening to me when I'm sober. Ouch.)

And really, thinking about this now, I should really be happy I am not in the dating sphere. And even if I were, by the way, I'd be hitting church functions to look for a man, a case in which I would probably suffer slightly less boredom and assuredly fewer alcohol-infused lectures.

* http://www.varminthunter.org/

** I am as equally smart-ass while sober, tipsy, or on my lips wasted. Probably the most when I'm sober, really - because listening to this sort of rambling discourse with no opportunity for a recipricol silence has often landed me in the position where my mind gets bored and goes to silly places. The number one thing I have discovered when this occurs is that men don't like to think they're being made fun of. Give them a few drinks and if they think I'm making fun of them (I'm not - I'm just "being funny") they will suddenly turn on me and offer a surprising amount of baleful malevolence, if not threats of physical violence.

*** Lest my alchoholic friends take umbrage, let me say that many drinkers I know are fun to be around the duration of the party. I also must take this brief, cowardly moment to apologize for my own wild or slobbery ramblings when I myself am on the other side of a few stiff G-&-Ts. Kelly(W), I guess I'm really referring here to Saturday night. I'm just glad you'd had enough to drink to not be bored off your tits.

My kids may think they get the upper hand, but they don't, not really. Take the trend recently where my children seem to think both they and I don't need a break from one another in the afternoon - a restful one. Oh, widdle kids no wanna take the nappy? We'll see about that. Take them to the beach for three hours (with snacks, water, and sunscreen) where they foolishly cannot help themselves, like monkeys on crack, from running their asses all over the place and having a big splashy, sandy time. Pry them off the beach, home to a quick rinse-off, and end result? Both of them, crashed out, asleep together in the time-out crib. Aw yeah bitches.

The beach is great. Mamas show up (sometimes bearing frosty beverages with a malt content; not today, though), kids show up, high school boys run around half-naked. Never too many people and no dogshit or traffic. Today as is my wont to do I caught a crab to keep in the bucket (briefly) for the kids. Even at 3 1/2 inches long, he was fucking terrifying, waving his claws and strenuously leaping about. I named him BallCutter and stood watch so the kids wouldn't lose the end of a pinky.

But apparently being in the sun has its toll on me as well; I'm having one of those, "Can't I just hang out in PJ's post-beach? Must I do the finances? Must I think of what to make for dinner?" days. Days like today I wish my kids were TV-trained a little better; I'd have them on my Harry Potter DVD until Daddy got home.

This weekend I think Sophie and I are hitting the reptile zoo up north. Interested toddler-mamas, do apply.

I am pretty sure that when my kids are out of home and leave me alone and I'm retired and my husband is dead or whatever (*making superstitious signs to avoid wrath of God for being so flippant about widowhood*) I will enjoy being my own woman again. Because I sure did this weekend. A synopsis:

Pros
* Being responsible for me. And only me. No one else's clothes, food, ass, time, or feelings.
* Cleaning house in three hours and having it stay immaculate for forty-eight hours ("Cynthia, someone came in my house and did my dishes! Oh no wait, it was me, and no one's fucked with them!")!
* Renting silly movies or playing the Rolling Stones and not being mocked. By anyone.

Cons
* Night-terrors on first night alone. Cute, yet existentially terrorizing!
* Realizing I couldn't bum favors off my husband, because he wasn't there (or rather, he was off doing the biggest favor for me ever).
* Coming back to reality.

Surprises
* I did not cook. At all. I either ate out or smeared peanut butter on a tortilla. I ate less, in fact, in general, and was spared the constant thinking of and shopping for food.
* A few dudes (ones I know and ones I don't) got the "single chick" vibe and scoped my action. Sorry fellas, but even if I had whore-ish tendencies I still wouldn't take you back to my place, because it is my place, and no one else's!
* Girls-only slumber parties are as fun as ever!

Next event in line for the Kelly / Brenda / Kelly Sandwich (TM): whale-watching in PT followed by ferry ride and Moroccan cuisine / bellydancing in Seattle.

My family just drove off, packed up, fed, clean, in travel clothes, outfitted with healthy food for the trip and a hot cup of coffee for Ralph.

I sat down on my couch, said a prayer of thanksgiving for them, and then asked for their safety and return home to me. Then I had a short cry.

I know that time to myself shouldn't feel scary. And it isn't, once I am used to it. But it's hard when parting time comes. I have a slightly difficult time being without my husband. No matter how we're getting along - sometimes wonderfully, sometimes, eh... - he is my comfort and I share his bed every night. Add to his leaving every other human physical comfort available to me - Sophie's hands stroking my back at night, Nels arms around me in the morning (this morning he slept in and when he came out of his room he was holding his butterfly wings and needed me to put them on him so he could be a butterfly), their sweet breath and soft skin and Nels' husky voice (he is talking more and more and almost everything he says sounds like it came out of the Cute Factory) and Sophie's lisp. I held them so much this morning, and the last couple days.

And when they get back, I will hold them again, as much as we all can stand it.

Just after four o'clock my eyes fly open. It seems like I've heard Nels, up from his nap, paddling through the house. I lay staring at the ceiling, my sleeping four-year-old on top of the quilt next to me. I am completely, solidly, through-and-through awake. After a few minutes of silence I slip out of bed. The three of us have been asleep almost two hours; surely, children will be waking soon. I peek in his room. He slumbers still, his soft brown skin and angelic curls belying the Menace he has become.

I have been edgy for several days. Over my son. I am worried for his safety. In part this is due to valid concerns that accompany his adventurous, physically-capable self. In part, it's something else, something I can't quite isolate and analyze, something to do with the state of my emotional health.

Yesterday he got out of the house. Now I know why every time someone tells a story about their young child escaping the safety of the home (even if it was an episode that occurred decades ago), there is always a note of apology, and in the past I've interpreted that the storyteller is feeling he or she could have been held accountable if anything would have gone wrong. Now that it's happened to me I realize this note of apology isn't really insecurity or shame: it's brokenness, thinking over what could have been, but wasn't; the dreaded he-was-just-here-a-minute-ago accident that haunts every sensible parent now and then. After all, no one can reasonably expect the parent of a toddler to create a system where the child could never possibly get himself in an unsafe situation (friends with young children know this; the judgment of friends who don't have children does not concern me or my friends with children). In short, our parental responsibilities in keeping our children safe and the fact the world is not always safe can create a constant undertone of vulnerability, fear, and a sort of spooked paranoia. I've been lucky that for years I've resisted that undercurrent; it seems now I am going to live with it for a while.

As to the actual escape, it was brief and uneventful but nevertheless unnerving. I was in the kitchen washing dishes and he was having a snack in the dining area. I suddenly got an eerie feeling and looked out the window to see my neighbor Megan and the mailman in my driveway, upper bodies bent at a slight incline and smiles on their faces, obviously talking to a chatting toddler. I rushed out, apron and all, and scooped up Nels. I know I told the Samaritans thank you, but I was too rattled to do much other than physically function and say the niceties. I didn't even elaborate on how scared I was to my helpers or explain where I'd been or what I'd been doing during his escape. And I didn't punish The Boy, of course. I carried him in against my thumping heart and buried my face in his hair. I latched the door and sat down on the couch for a minute until my ears stopped ringing.

This weekend he journeys with my husband and daughter to my in-laws in Eastern Washington. I tell my friends how excited I am to have the house to myself for a weekend (the first time since the children were born). My girlfriends spin tales of me passed out on my living room floor (after a night filled with various acts of debauchery) amongst empty liquor bottles, and a crumpled novelty t-shirt. The truth is, a big part of me will be relieved and content just to know Nels is under the care of his Papa, sister, and two doting and watchful grandparents: and for a few days, not me.

As I wrote this story my husband puts away dishes and makes ready for dinner. Nels creaks the door open and comes running out, clad only in socks, to be swooped up into waiting, loving arms. In the moment, he is completely unaware of anything other than the joy of being alive.

Today was my husband's birthday. After farming the kids out for the evening and cooking him a just-for-two dinner (he sat and relaxed while I did everything), we had a surprise with a few friends over and I served this:



I wish I had better to offer than shitty webcam photos. Pegs and I hastily took this while four families including buttloads of kids were clamoring for it. Here's a rundown:

* A plane. With snakes. Motherfuckin' snakes! (click and look closely: snakes are deadly and to scale).

* Four layer (Devil's food and yellow box cakes) with cream-cheese frosting filling.

* Best Chocolate Frosting Ever (recipe from Seattle's Pasta & Co). Thanks, Becca!

* Candy decorations: chocolate jordan almonds and chocolate candied apricots from Elevated Ice Cream.

* Confetti and birthday sign:



* 3 white candles (1 decade each) and a yellow one (value =-1).

Did I mention the motherfuckin' snakes?

Tonight I dipped my toe into the tepid, pleasantly plastic-scented waters of Consumerism Bliss, but I did not dive in. At 6:30 I accompanied two friends on a drive to our local Shopper's Mecca of Silverdale (also known as Slobberhell, Consumerdale, etc) for a brief purchase of serger thread to help Cyn finish her cloth napkins (yay! Sewing!). Then, in our aimless way, the three of us set off on some harmless shopping, nothing serious, before it was time to head back to PT.

The glass tumblers my husband sent me to Target for are not in stock. After brief consideration, I decide not to look for a suitable replacement but instead wander back through the aisles, feeling a distinct lack of temptation for anything on the shelves. Regarding all the nice things on all the ordered shelves of all the tempting marketplaces in my geographic possibilities, I am somehow halfway there to some mystical Buddhistic place, but I don't quite know where "there" is. As I walk to rejoin my friends I fondle a couple dozen richly colored beaded throw-pillows and feel a brief pang for piles of thin quilts my favorite color of greens and muds (cotton fabric and blankets can be my downfall). Everything cheap, nothing insurmountable, everything yours for the taking and the credit line. Marked down items, "classy" packaging - with enough work and purchasing manhours, anyone can assemble a home that looks like a diorama of the American Dream. An enticing display. I tell my friend Paige that I cannot allow myself to go purchase niceties and luxuries such as this guilt-free; I am waiting for something to allow me to do so, to help me choose which things to bring into my home. I don't know if it's money, the desire to quench my consumeristic drive, my distaste for the type of labor that has spawned these cheaply-sold goods, or all of the above.

Perhaps I should back up a bit, lest you readers not understand what an accomplishment this abstention is for me: I have been afflicted with the "I wants" as long as I can remember. Before I had a job, before I had a home to run or even a room to furnish. Since I first grasped the concept of currency I have found the world to be full of wonderful, shiny things to buy and to then feel good about buying them. Not just for myself; in fact, hardly for myself. Along with my extravagant desires developed an equally generous heart that longs to shower friends and family with comforts and trinkets. But what I enjoyed most was what I brought home for myself: beeswax candles, tiny yet expensive cases of makeup, a soft vintage t-shirt to wash and wear the next day.

But as an adult I have learned that for every thing you buy or collect there is a price, more regrettable than the cash spent that cannot be reclaimed, more exhausting than the exertions of finding the "perfect score" (a Holy Grail of housewifery that many of my peers seem to live for), more disconcerting than the closets and storage area crammed with one's possessions: the emotional baggage that a lifetime - or even a quarter of a lifetime - of accumulation can build. The initial thrill is limitless and very in-the-moment, but does not last and indeed becomes a snare of condemnation and confusion - why do I have all this stuff? What else should I buy to make it complete? Why do I never feel complete? Purchasing something new or old, frivolous or virtuous, and the brief high is all too ephemeral and one's focus and life mission seems to blur at the edges, dissolve, and become unimportant in the pursuit of the matching stemware set.

On our drive home we stop at a Vietnamese restaurant in Poulsbo where I purchase a bubble tea (with mango jelly and tapioca) for my daughter and an iced milk coffee for myself. My daughter loves bubble tea quite fiercely, and since it isn't available in our hometown she seldom gets it. It is one of the very few things I can buy for her or bring her or do for her that truly creates a long-lasting joy in her soul and a deep gratitude for me (other things she loves me to do: when I sing to her, when I say "Thank you" to someone in her earshot, and when I read to her).

I guess some things really are worth buying, but I'm damned if I always know how to tell the difference.

Only my poor children (and occasionally my husband) have to suffer though one of my most offensive travelling idiosynchrocies: I am a radio-surfer. By this I mean that, given a lack of a viable CD to listen to or a companion to talk with, I can spend an hour or two flipping back and forth on the FM, belting out snippets as I hear them, listening to an entire song now and then but most importantly changing back and forth often and compulsively. Perhaps it's a short-attention span thing, I don't know. Back when I had my iPod (R.I.P.) I had no trouble listening to entire albums at a time; now, I only carry a few CDs per trip and can tire of them over a couple hours. Now the radio, for all its fun in spontanaeity and unexpected nostalgia or newness can regularly disappoint, and not just with commercials.

Case in point: tonight was a poor night for my habit. Perhaps one problem was just the overwhelming variety and number of stations I could flip through: the clarity of the air tonight made many, many stations available (including one I hadn't heard before, Victoria BC's The Q - I listened to tonight's 9:07 PM to 9:17 PM offerings but bagged off at Neil Young's "Rockin' In The Free World"). I noted tonight that it's really too bad I don't enjoy Santana's "Oye Como Va" because I could have heard it about twelve fucking times on eight different stations in a two-hour driving stint, had I wanted to. I did secretly steal a pleased listen to CSN&Y's "Love The One You're With" (this getting me through part of the McCleary-Shelton cutoff), pretending like there was nothing better on. I am such a sucker for any CSN&Y (or variations thereof) - it's my filthy flower-childhood shining through. Past Courtesy Ford on the last leg home I enjoyed a cigarette to Don Henley's "Boys Of Summer", a song I am fond of for both the lyrical sadness and the fun ricocheting drum track - although for sing-along value I can't even hit half the high notes Mr. Henley requires (another great reason no one but my helpless children are in the car).

Along with the thrill of the occasional perfect song comes the not-quite-as-momentous but equally perfect annoyances: notably, tonight, a heretofore unheard version of The Rolling Stone's "Under My Thumb" (and no, it's not the Social Distortion version).* Now, skipping over all the specific lameness in what I heard tonight, you have to understand we are talking about a song that was perfect in every way in the original version (the nastiness and misogyny of the original is so great it makes me shiver in delight). See, while some artists' writings are covered or co-opted with much success (Carol King, Leonard Cohen, Dolly Parton, Bob Dylan) there are some perfect moments in pop music that should remain sacred: The Police's "Can't Stand Losing You" (and a lot of their other shit), Bill Wither's "Ain't No Sunshine", Abbey Road, David Bowie's "China Girl" (itself a cover of sorts, originally released by Iggy Pop), Patti LaBelle's "Lady Marmalade", and ... I guess any Johnny Cash, really. Seriously, people. Leave that shit alone. I am not saying The Stones can't be covered - I'm sure they can. But for that particular song, if anyone can find any charm in the first place (and like I said, I can), it should be left as is.

I'm going to stop now before my music snob friends (and you know who you are!) start investing scorn on my ass.

P.S. Along those lines if anyone has seen anything goofy on my last.fm account, it's Ralph's doing (who's had my Mac these last few days). For instance, you wouldn't see me listening to Sleater-Kinney. Ever.

* After I started this post I found thanks to The Q's searchable database I had listened to Streetheart. The assy-ness of the cover song could in part be explained by the weird Canadian rule that requires their stations to play Canadian music. Not to say all Canadian music is assy of course, but this cover got a boost in the song lottery merely by being citizens.

We've been in this house for four and a half years. Notable dissatisfactions: The mostly-dead giant tree in our front yard (ivy strangling it despite our efforts to clear it away). The kitchen sink, the faucet of which has had a bad diverter for two years now. The weird shed and smaller buildings in the backyard, irritating as much for their potential to hold stuff for us (and keep us from selling or gifting it elsewhere) as the completely creepy lumber and assymetrical floorplan it is built with. The universally bad blinds on the windows, all of them broken or in relative disrepair. The state of the grounds - which our mediocre efforts have improved upon only but still remain shoddy. The layer-upon-layer paint job in the kitchen cupboards, which means I can never truly get them clean no matter how often I scrub them.

But. I am so glad to be home. To smell our laundry soap on my husband. The scent of fresh-cut grass (Ralph did the lawn today) and a few candles on the clean kitchen table. Our bed, made up in the red-and-white quilt I bought Ralph for our first anniversary. To feel cleaned wood floors under my feet. My bathroom and the olive oil and honey soap I so love.

Sophie feels the same. She sighs, "It's so nice to be here in my home!"

Amen, sister.

This morning my sore throat is a minor agony, painful to swallow and itchy in my ears. My remedy: aspirin and a drink of hot water, lemon, and sugar. As I type this, my parents are serving my children bacon and french toast and I am shuddering thinking about the long haul betwen now and afternoon naps.

Last night my newfound resolution to "relax" resulted in two successes: 1. I let Nels be dirty during the day, and 2. I allowed my parents to settle my kids in bed (a feat that took longer than they bargained for) while my brother and I went out to rent a movie. This errand also was more than we bargained for: three video stores, a pizza, and a car breakdown later, we arrived home too beat to watch the film.

Today: our customary 2-mile walk; swimming at the local snooty Y; birfday present shopping.

I am at my parents for a few days, in part to celebrate my brother's birthday on Saturday the 8th (note to self: start practicing the Birthday Cock-Punch maneuver). I am trying a novel approach to my visit: to relax and enjoy it, without constantly having half an ear cocked for the horrible ways my kids behave.

Of course, my kids aren't horrible, not really. At my folks' place with all the distractions, the large rooms, the dog, the fish pond, the slide-out garbage (that Nels often snacks from), and the endless parade of treats, snacks, and homemade goodies (upon our arrival my mom had, warm in the oven, Sophie's favorite meal of chicken strips) - well, they descend into more of an animal-like state than anything else. As I type this they are helping themselves to ice from the icemaker and eating it off the table without hands. Anyway, I am forced to either hound their ass, whine at them from an exhausted state on the couch, or just let them go somewhere primal and Grandma-influenced for a period of time.

My decision to relax my standards without regret or edginess is also largely influenced by my mom herself, who has made a point to insist over and over how relaxing it is for me to be in her home (why she never asks me if this is so, is a mystery to me). It's always been obvious to me my mom is a gracious hostess, and of course I enjoy coming back to the house I was (mostly) raised in. But any weekend with my children that does not include at least a half-time nanny, an exclusively outdoor arena, or a padded room is par for the course hardly relaxing. I am attempting to change that, dropping one behavioral standard at a time.

I'll let you know.

Last night I had a dream whereby I discovered the reason I have been feeling low energy and gaining weight was that I was once again pregnant. Of course, in real life this is a medical impossibility since my sole sexual partner has defunct sperm. In this dream, the miraculous and somewhat dubious event of my conception crossed my mind and, frankly, I worried about getting my ass beat by my husband when I told him (as it turns out, he did not in fact doubt my fidelity but rather the skills of the urologist who performed his vasectomy; anyway, soon after this he morphed into a quasi-husband rather than the Ralph I am married to - you know, in that way dreams do). From there my visions spiraled downward into shoplifting, a scene of mutilation, and a mildly incestuous theme that included shotgun-justice. Jesus, whose brain comes up with this stuff, anyway?

Today is the fourth anniversary of my grandmother's death. This event is tied to "Invention & Technology" magazine in a very specific way, which I coincidentally discussed with Cyn regarding metal scrapping today. Now, I'm going to write five things about my grandmother:

1. She was a real bitch in a lot of ways. I think a big part of this was her struggle to raise five kids on her own while my Grandpa was off working or serving in wars. I don't think she liked the actual kid-raising part of it very much. I didn't know her then of course, and in later years I knew a woman who was compromised by a few significant health problems and just plain old age crotchety-ness. I'm not sure who she really would have been had I known her fully and without the Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? alcoholism (which also flows in my veins) and the constant backpain that made her so prone to vicious grouchiness. I did know her, though. The She that she Was did shine through like a bitter wrinkled coffee bean or a faithful mongrel dog and I loved her for it.

2. She had very un-Grandma-like platinum blonde hair that hung down to her ass - but she always, always wore it up (in a chingon supported by spritzes of Mink hairspray, which along with Emeraude perfume will remain indelibly fused to my early childhood memories of her). One summer when I was sixteen I saw her with her hair down as she brushed it out and I remarked on it's baby-fine beauty and asked her to leave it down. "I'd look like the world's oldest hippie!" she chuckled, amused (this did not seem like a bad thing to me; it seemed like a silly thing to her). She only wore it down at bedtime, with her bangs in tight little pincurls for the next day (and she did not give a shit who saw her in "bedtime hair" or even scrubbing her face and armpits wearing nothing but Granny panties when I walked in on her in the bathroom one day).

3. My grandfather doted on her, in a way that was not at all smarmy and also rather complicated to explain (since I also remember him shaking his empty highball glass at her and saying, "Jean! Jean!"). He has a blue Army tattoo of her name on his arm - must be at least 55 years old.

4. She found joy and happiness in the smallest of details. She talked with her crab-claw hands gesturing in a space eighteen inches from her sternum, describing the petits fours from the night before's dinner or reaching for a cigarette from the ashtray on the kitchen table.

5. She met my first child - her first great-grandchild - as she lay dying in a hospital bed. She was severely disabled from stroke but she recognized us and instantly knew who Sophie was. Her hand (always manicured but talon-like) reached out and gripped my daughter's leg and the eye we could see gleamed. She connected with my daughter and we visited with her off and on as she slipped further away. Days later she passed on. I was fortunate to be there in her last days (although my shit boss gave me shit for it). She lives on for me and I often wish she was still here, a tinny voice on the phone asking me if I breastfeed my children and saying, "Oh good!" in her smoky laugh.

Happy 4th!

Despite a generous invitation from a very good friend, nothing on Earth could have dragged me to see this movie and then stick around for the follow-up discussions with my fellow Port Townsendites:

• "When are we going to close off the Water Street thoroughfare to bicycles and foot-traffic only?";
• "What is the Rose Theatre's protocol on recycling the contents from their melted butter tureen?"; and
• [arrogant, self-effacing chuckle]: "I've been writing a grant for a biodynamic research co-op here in town, and I find it interesting how..." [thoughtfully stroking goatee]

etc. etc.

The movie, surely, I will see - and soon. I'm just not up for anything heavy (or PT-Annoying!) this particular evening - especially when said evening alternative involves swilling screwtop wine and watching BBC's finest (and darkest) comedy with my husband.

Of course, not all is lighthearted frivolous ass-time here at Casa Del Hogaboom. Yes, we're gearing up for the 4th of July and all the gastronomic indecencies that will entail. Acting from a foggy memory of a snack my mother described courtesy of one of my sexy MySpace ladies (I may only have a few friends but they are my REAL FRIENDS, Pegs!), today in addition to burger and coleslaw fixin's I also gathered up accoutrement for the fabled pretzel-Rolo-pecan snack (five minutes ago while scrolling past the second picture in this article - looking for a photo for my dear readers - I found I had bought the exact same ingredients, yes, right down to the variety of Snyder's pretzels! Anyone else feeling a 4th of July premonitory thrill? Oh, well. Me neither). I expect dutifully impressed guests, and if I don't get that response I will blindly stumble down my hallway, throwing watermelon basket salad in giant handfuls and sobbing my CoverGirl mascara off.

Just this second I told Ralph, "I think I'm going to throw up!" since I'm feeling our typical post-Macadoo's meal nausea. Sophie heard this, came down from upstairs with her milk-mustache and banana-breath and said, "Mama, it's OK! ... Come on, you can puke in the bathroom upstairs," while gripping me with clammy hands and leaning consolingly against my shoulder. It's nice to be loved.