Out of the Kitchen

Ready to start

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 06:19:00 +0000

Cold, rainwashed Monday morphed into sunny Tuesday which gave way to clear, windy Wednesday, today, a hot and postcard-perfect Southern California day.

Crawling through traffic to pick up the daughter, my mind wanders. Waves of heat shimmer off the truck in front of me, and the guardrails at the train crossing shimmy and shiver in the fractured light.

Chicken piccata, I think, or chicken curry. Rice, I think. Salad, I think.

Tacos, I decide.

The brassy, insistently bright beat of mariachi music from another car assaults my closed windows. Kids shriek at one another, their aggressive voices echoing in the freeway underpass. Waiting at another red light, I am startled by sudden screams, but it is only a hyperactive individual dressed like the Statue of Liberty, advertising tax preparation services on the opposite corner.

A semester has passed, I think. Only seven more.

This is how I delineate, count off the time for this particular task. It is Wednesday; I only have to do this twice more this week. Two days off, five days on. I don't see the adventure in it, the idiots sauntering slowly across the middle of Main Street as an emergency vehicle screams toward them. I am mystified by these people who push baby carriages and shopping carts into rush hour traffic, dragging small children off the curb with them.

The daughter chirps beside me, happily chewing the Red Vine I brought her, while I count down traffic lights and curse quietly at a camper that crosses three lanes of traffic and cuts me off.

FAFSA, I think, and taxes. Birthdays, I think. Doctors appointments, I think.

A new blender, I remember.

My time is broken, and my energies are scattered. If I can only finish...I think, but what needs to be finished becomes time-scale calculus.

Tomorrow is a new day, I think, and I will conquer.

Go listen to some music: "Ready to Start" from the album The Suburbs by Arcade Fire. This is my 1,000 post, and it's meaningful, all the more so because I'm giving myself over to you again.

Anywhere you go

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 06:11:00 +0000

You know I'll still be waiting

Heliocentric time and my time are not presently in synchrony. I'm trying to wrest some sort of schedule out of chaos.

The daughter was invited to an '80s-themed dance party. Of course, a goodly number of the dance parties of my youth were '80s-themed, too.

I discovered that I still have a frightening number of outfits from that era, along with boots and lace gloves. While trying on a Maggie London dress that I bought when I was 21, the daughter was annoyed to discover that I had a much smaller waist before I had babies than she does now. She was not mollified when I explained that my easily-broken body is proportioned completely wrong and hers is lovely, slim and strong. The Maggie London was set aside, and we came up with a boxy black jacket to go over a pair of her black trousers, the aforementioned lace gloves, and a large collection of necklaces a la mode. When the time came, I painstakingly scrunched her long hair into voluminous '80s waves and tied it up with a pearl and silk scarf from the 1950s (something I appropriated from my mother in the '80s). I brushed on eyeshadow and slashes of plum-colored blush and gave her a rosy-violet lipstick.

Her father was completely taken aback by her transformation. "My God," he said, startled. "You really do look like you just stepped out of 1984."

I was taken aback at how much she looked like a younger me. People always comment on the resemblance, which I have difficulty seeing, but last night, I saw it in her hair, the tilt of her head, the way she looked at us out of the corner of her eye. It was like time travel.

I dropped her off at the party venue and spoke briefly with some of the other parents before taking myself off to a nearby coffee house to wait out the evening. It occurred to me then that my mother must have felt a similar pang to see me playing dress-up '50s style when I went to sock hops in junior high. How very strange, not to mention nostalgic in the truest sense of the word, to see our progeny costuming themselves as us when we were young.

Go listen to some music: "All the Things She Said" from the album Glittering Prize: Simple Minds 81/92 by Simple Minds. Never look back.

You love the little signs of life

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 07:11:00 +0000

They are a law unto themselves

The clock flipped from 11:59 December 31 to 12:00 January 1 and something did happen.

I can't explain how this all works.

But I feel it.

And I got really busy. So busy, in fact, that the entire family's schedule currently hinges on an emailed scheduled.

Last year, I broke. This year, the bonds broke.

I can't explain it.

But this is how it is.

It's a wild wind that blows (and the winds have blown the last few months), and I see the cracks of light as doors and windows seem to open everywhere. Change is here--welcome change and other change--and change will come. I love some of it; other I could do without, but I'll run with it all.

I can see it come for miles

I am plotting. We know that good mischief tends to follow. Or, at the least, that things get interesting. I have plans. Whether or not my body plans to follow along is anyone's guess, but I know how to get where I'm going.

I can't explain the road I'm on.

But I welcome it.

A new empire beckons

Go listen to some music: "The Weight of Love" from the album Fallen Empires by Snow Patrol. Thank God someone is putting out new music.

Where I belong

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 18:13:00 +0000

I toyed with the idea of blogging every day in 2012, and look! It's already January 4. So much for that misbegotten idea.

I'm still figuring out my world's schedule. I've still got a kid at home on break. This two different school calendars is a little wearing because I've now had a kid at home for three weeks straight. They may be teenagers but they still want my attention. Like all the time. Except when they don't.

And yesterday, after the son got home from school, he and his sister went on this music-buying binge. Since my computer is iTunes Central and the house server and backs up the world, it's all been downloaded to my account. The son has developed a taste for Celtic music along with stuff that sounds astonishingly like 1970s TV series themes, while the daughter headed east and is now listening to a Spanish band.

I love my life.

Go listen to some music: "Where I Belong" from the album Across Acheron by Adrian von Ziegler. Obviously not the 1970s TV theme music...

Was a long and dark December

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 06:46:00 +0000

I've thought about it for awhile.

Full stop.

I thought about making that last night's final words.

Good-bye.

Sore throaty and headachey, I suggested to myself that I sleep on it one more night. Because I always believe a new day, a new month, a new year is going to make everything look new.

I don't. But I hope for the best.

Weirdly, though, I woke up this morning, sneezing and coughing, and everything was somehow brighter. Some energy had shifted.

Yesterday, I saw a lot of different people opining on why everyone makes such a big deal about the new year. I think it's simple. We need to account. We need beginnings and endings. We want--most of us, anyway--redemption or another shot. One more chance.

It's why Catholics go to confession. You get a clean slate.

The daughter was the last to drag herself out of bed this morning, and said, yawning, "I missed you all. I haven't seen you since last year."

"But," I replied with innocent astonishment. "It seems like just yesterday."

I'm no different from yesterday. Wonky body parts are just as wonky. I cooked meals like I always do. But the slate is clean and the year is young and new.

I've got another chance to write all over it. How can I resist that?

Go listen to some good music: "Violet Hill" from the album Viva La Vida by Coldplay.

An end has a start - 2011

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 04:44:00 +0000

So, a year then.

A year where paralysis physical morphed into paralysis mental. A year of pain. More pain than I've known in years.

Paralysis is painful. Who knew?

Physically, I've regained 70% of the use of my right leg. And that is that. Walking can still be difficult; standing for long periods is unwise. Climbing takes thought and is very uncomfortable. There is a limit to how long I can drive.

I don't care for limits.

This is not the year I wanted. It was a year of looking inward but not in a happy way. Probably, I learned something from it. I have yet to figure out what.

Still, there was light. Pain or no pain, I took the daughter to New York. I took the son to Chicago. I took the entire family on a crazed tour of the Northeast. I paid for it--in pain--but I'd not have missed any of it for the world.

Perhaps that is the lesson. Can't walk? So what. Show up anyway.

Which is what I did.

SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT THING I'D LIKE EVERYONE TO CONSIDER DOING IN 2012:

Well, truly, I'd like everyone to stay in nice physical shape so they never have to deal with paralysis and pain, but truth is, I was in good physical shape and it happened anyway. Hmph.

There are lots of worthy causes out there. Help someone. Even if it's yourself.

BEST BOOK I READ THAT WAS ACTUALLY PUBLISHED IN 2011:

Yikes. I don't know. I read a lot of books this year, partly because I spent a lot of time not moving. I really liked Julian Barnes' Sense of an Ending. Presently, I am embedded in--trust me, the verb works--the English translation of Haruki Murakami's 1Q84, which is...bizarre. But I've found that with Murakami, the best thing to do is get in the car and let him drive, even if you have no idea where he's going. The only time he's really disappointed me was A Wild Sheep Chase, which I found pretty much unreadable. Anyway, I know I read other stuff this year. Right now, I just can't think what.

BEST ALBUM I BOUGHT THIS YEAR:

Foo Fighters, Wasting Light

BEST PLACE I STAYED WHEN I WAS AWAY FROM HOME:

The daughter and I just really enjoyed our stay at the Casablanca Hotel in New York. The rooms were tiny, but the service and amenities were impeccable and the location--literally steps away from Times Square--couldn't be beat.

Later in the summer when we were back in NYC, the whole family stayed at The Pearl. The rooms (for New York) were really spacious, and the service was friendly. It didn't quite stack up to the Casablanca in terms of amenities, though they tried, and it was well situated near Times Square. We just loved the E&E Grill next door where we had one of the best and most fun dinners ever, with really good food and wonderful service.

The son and I also stayed at Hotel Monaco in Chicago (see a theme here?), which was nice, too, and we shared the best Cuban sandwich (PORK BELLY!) and truffle fries at the South Water Kitchen.

SINGLE MOST BIZARRE MOMENT OF THE YEAR:

MRI? Getting a needle rammed into my spinal column? Ergh.

BEST CONCERT I SAW THIS YEAR:

There was only one (though I did see Wicked twice, once in New York and once in Los Angeles), and even though I had to sit through half of it, it still would have been the best concert I saw this year: Rush, June 20, 2011, Universal Amphitheater, Los Angeles.

THE MOMENT WHEN I FELT MY HEART IMPLODE:

The daughter's acceptance to OCHSA. The son's acceptance to a really good university. I have raised these kids to be their own people, to be accountable to themselves and I am so very proud of them.

And there was that moment. It was a moment that included others but one I cherish quietly and keep to myself.

It was the moments like these that kept me from drowning this year.

We none of us know what the future might bring, and this year, nothing could have been truer. I figured out ways to maintain perspective, no matter how hard it was. And yes, my doctors did approach me like mechanics, as did a team of physical therapists, and I'm grateful to all of them for their insight, their compassion, and their on-going interest in my well-being. In 2012, I just have to put everything back together.

And I will. I am like that.

Because I am, at heart, an eternal optimist, here is to new adventures, new travels, new stuff to do and to love for us all. My wish for everyone continues to be that we come out shining on the other side. Thank you, as always, for spending time with me.

Be safe, be good, and remember to eat your black-eyed peas.

...with hope in your hands
and air to breathe

Go listen to some good music: "An End Has a Start" from the album An End Has a Start by Editors.

Santa Claus is coming to town

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 06:36:00 +0000

My photo albums (non-existent, except on my computer) are surprisingly devoid of photos of the kids with Santa. The reason is simple. I did it once. The son screamed bloody hell after a few moments of looking utterly terrified.

I never really tried it again.

Red suit, big beard, or horrifying halitosis, for some reason, the son took umbrage to Santa that year. He was nearly two and two is a fairly impressionable age. And the dude, though pleasant, had the worst case of bad breath I've ever encountered, and I wasn't even that close to him. It was enough to scare me.

Naturally, the whole thing was my mother-in-law's idea, but I agreed with no hesitation. The Santa visit was one of the staples of my childhood, though without all of today's photo packages. There were no photos, in fact, unless one's parent took one, and when we went to see Santa down at local mall, the real prize was receiving a candy cane. It was just a fun and silly event, an excuse to get out of the house, and an opportunity to enjoy the decorations in the department stores.

Shortly after the son was born, my MIL instituted Wednesday lunch. She often met up with some of her friends for lunch at the Bullocks' tea room, and she wanted to show off her latest grandchild, so the son and I were invited along one afternoon.

(Okay, I'm back. I got distracted reading about department store history in Southern California. There is a building near the daughter's school that I recently realized used to be a department store; I was wandering around and I was actually looking at the buildings, and of course, the old display windows were still evident in what now houses social services offices. I've just discovered it was a Buffums, an old high-end, family-owned department store chain that I believe is now defunct. Not that this has anything to do with the post I'm writing.)

Evidently, she enjoyed the lunch--I am well-mannered and the son is entertaining--and invited us again. It became an outing that she and I would embark upon every couple of weeks. Lunch evolved into lunch and a little shopping, and naturally, when the holidays rolled around, Santa figured in.

The photo shows the son straining away from Santa. It was before he began bellowing.

"That man smells so bad!" my MIL murmured to me after I retrieved my red-faced and tucked him back into his stroller. "No wonder the boy didn't want to sit on his lap."

By the following year, I was expecting the daughter and because of complications, I was supposed to rest, so there were few lunches and no trip to see Santa. In later years around the holidays, I'd suggest that we might go and have a chat with the Man in Red, but the kids would look at me and shake their heads violently in the negative. Receiving a candy cane at brunch at the Athenaeum from Santa was about their speed--he traversed the dining rooms with a basket of candy and offered greetings to everyone--but they would decline to have a photo taken with him when he was holding court in front of the Ath's tree.

Thus, my photo albums are devoid of photos of the kids with Santa.

And through the years, when they watch A Christmas Story, and Santa pushes Ralphie down the slide with his foot yelling "HO HO HO!" the kids point to screen and say, "See, Mom? See?" as if the proof for their years of refusal is right there.

Go listen to some music: "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" was written by John Frederick Coots and Haven Gillespie and is sung by everyone.

Who's that girl?

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 06:29:00 +0000

Since the school year started, we see her most mornings, the son and I. It's early, so you tend to recognize the people who are out and about: an older couple with their coffee, the woman with the young Australian shepherd, another woman who meets her daughter to go for a walk, and this girl, clearly walking to school, the high school up the street. I always notice the younger ones because it's early, and as a parent I feel protective. The son noticed her because she is cute, of middling height, slim, with long hair. She noticed the son, which I teased him about, just a little, because he is insecure about his looks, and it was important that he know he was being checked out.

I feel an odd fondness for this girl I don't know at all. She walks briskly, with purpose, sometimes eating her breakfast as she goes. She's dressed modishly, but modestly. She stands tall, but without the swagger and attitude of most teens, and she doesn't carry the snarky, mean girl attitude that I see on so many her age. She seems to be thinking about things.

I notice when I haven't seen her in the morning.

The son notices, too.

The first report was Thursday evening, and a little shiver went up my spine. I check the sheriff's department blotter in the newspaper to keep up with what's going on in the neighborhood, especially when there's been a nearby fire or we see emergency vehicles.

"Missing juvenile," it said. "Sixteen year old female. Left note that she would be home by 6pm. Hasn't returned."

Lots of kids around here, I told myself, despite the fact everything matched up too closely.

The next morning, there was a photo in the paper. It was fuzzy and the girl who was pictured had her hair pulled back, but I felt an uncomfortable certainty. Still, we weren't quite sure it was her. I chat with the woman who meets her daughter, so I'd surely recognize her, and occasionally I exchange stiff nods with the older couple, but I tend to avoid looking at the teens passing by unless they're causing trouble or are known to me. It seems a nicety.

The half-familiar, half-unfamiliar photo gave me pause. I was unpleasantly reminded of Shirley Jackson's short story, "The Missing Girl," in which no one quite remembers or quite recalls anything about the girl who has disappeared. In this day and age, could someone fall through the cracks so easily? Are too many of us averting our eyes politely?

She still was missing the following the day. A new gallery of photos showed up in the newspaper, and it was then we knew: it was without doubt the girl we see walking in the morning.

"Oh no," said the son. "Should we say something?"

"What?" I asked him. "That we see her walking in the morning? We haven't seen her since earlier in the week. We haven't any information that can help."

I understood his frustration, though. We weren't friends or family, just two random strangers who recognized someone in danger, and we were powerless to help. She was a piece of our world, just a small bit, someone who passed by in the morning, but we wanted her back, safe, where she belonged.

So often these stories don't have a happy ending. This time, at least, the missing girl was recovered, evidently safe and sound. I know more about her now because of the newspaper stories, her name and what she likes to do and that she's had a rough time recently. I know she has family and friends who care about her. It's unlikely she'll ever know that two random strangers worried over her absence.

But I know. She is a piece of my world, a tiny bit, back where she belongs.

Go listen to some music: "Who's That Girl?" from the album Greatest Hits by Eurythmics.

We need a little Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 18:09:00 +0000

And by that, I mean we need a little generosity, which people sometimes remember is the hallmark of the season but mostly forget in the wave of Black Friday and gimme, gimme, gimme promotions. Two of the most offensive things that I've seen this year are ads referring to "giftmas" and the Best Buy "Game On, Santa" ads.

The winter holidays are a difficult time of year for me. My father was unemployed or underemployed for a significant part of my childhood, so we lived close to the bone. Christmas for me became more about putting up the tree, baking and enjoying the lights than about gifts. Even now, receiving gifts is a source of confusion and distress for me (though I'll take your love, affection, friendship, smiles, hugs and laughter any day of the week). I love the music, and loved caroling (you asked. My favorite is "Carol of the Bells."). We always got books through the kindness of a family friend, and clothing from a relative (usually the only new clothes I ever had), and some stuff here and there. My mother would squirrel away funds in a Christmas account to pay for presents and a dinner that was a little nicer.

It's funny how some of these options are no longer available to families trying to keep afloat. The banks discourage saving, and recently, I read that those of us who do save are responsible for the crappy economy because we are "hoarding money." How times change.

Still, I was happy to see a couple of years ago that some stores had wised up and rather than relying upon credit cards, were back to offering layaway where customers pick out merchandise and the store holds it while the customer makes payments. It was a method of purchase that was utilized a great deal when I was a kid.

And I was even more heartened to read yesterday about all of Kmart's "layaway angels," strangers who were paying off others' accounts so kids would have toys and clothing at Christmas. A woman in Indiana paid for thousands of dollars worth of merchandise, and only asked that people "remember Ben," evidently a reference to her late husband.

Generosity comes in many forms, and a lot of them are much smaller and less newsworthy but just as welcome and equally awesome. Whether you are in need or can give, you, too, can be generous. It's as simple as what should be common courtesy: holding a door for another person or letting a car merge on the freeway without making them fight for a space. Remember to say please. Remember to thank the person who held the door for you.

If you've got bigger ideas, though, the possibilities for kindness are endless. Find out what your local food bank or homeless shelter needs and provide a few items. Food banks have been emptied because of the increased need, and even if you can only give a few boxes of pasta or a couple of cans of vegetables, you'll help feed someone else. Homeless shelters are often on the look out for new underwear and warm socks for their clients, and many can also use toiletries. The daughter and I spent an afternoon assembling hygiene kits for our local rescue mission, while the son and I packed holiday meal boxes for another charity. We gave small gifts to our local children's hospital for kids who will be stuck there receiving treatment during the holidays. We also support Donors Choose, and a whole bunch of kids in high poverty schools will be returning to brand new sets of books when they go back to class in 2012. Because I believe in the power of reading and the gift of possibility.

Or you can always head out to Kmart.

Just don't forget that generosity is a gift that comes in all shapes and sizes.

Go listen to some music: "We Need a Little Christmas" from the musical Mame, book by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee and music and lyrics by Jerry Herman. Yes, this song does send a bit of a mixed message, but as the story goes, the protagonist has lost all her money in the Crash of 1929, and is calling for a little cheer to raise everyone's spirits. I'm calling for good works, but you know me. And if you really know me, the charities I support the most are those devoted to education and animals. Anonymously, for the most part.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

It occurred to me tonight as I wrote Christmas cards to my brother and one of my sisters that the Christmas card has become obsolete. No wonder the Postal Service is bankrupt.

Cards came pouring in every holiday season when I was a child. Many of them were from friends of my parents or more distant relatives, people they only heard from once or twice a year. Phone calls were expensive then and letters, time-consuming. So people saved up their family news for Christmas and birthday cards.

For us, some of these people were mysterious, and their cards prompted stories of high school days or adventures in the Congo. Large or small, filled with photos of other people's children, full of news or just signed with a name, the cards were always interesting.

I sent Christmas cards religiously though they weren't necessarily religious, even in the years that pregnancy crippled my hands. Finally, though, when the children were young and I was over-committed in every direction, I gave up the practice because something had to go, and I didn't want to give up baking and I couldn't give up the room-mother job.

Friends bore with us, though, and I'd dash off a quick note when I could. I always promised myself that I'd send everyone Valentine's cards or St. Patrick's cards to make up for the holiday deficit, but of course, that never happened.

(And I have to admit I abominate the holiday letter, though I do enjoy getting them from close friends. One set of friends in particular writes a pretty hilarious one. But then there is the relative--the spouse's, by marriage--who produced a five-page tome that dissected and discussed at length the many ailments and deficiencies of that family's friends and relations. It became so ghastly that it demanded a dramatic recitation every year. For better or worse, many of the ailing have since passed on, and the letter is down to two pages because the younger generations are still reasonably healthy.)

In any event, the majority of the cards we are receiving his year are from businesses. Our insurance agent has checked in, as has one of our financial people, and the electrician. A few family members have sent cards as well, mostly those we do not see frequently.

With the advent of social media, of course, everyone is now in everyone else's face all the time, so there is no need to catch up during the holidays to relate the news. Everyone knows what you had for lunch and where and probably, with whom. A few days ago, a friend texted me from a restaurant on the East Coast where we'd had lunch as kids. I was amused--and somewhat flummoxed.

For those of us who eschew Facebook (me!), there is still email, texting and yes, the now-inexpensive phone call. I keep up with most of my friends electronically, even if it isn't Twitter or Facebook (and for the record, those of you who read this? No, I don't expect a Christmas card, except maybe you with the stuff on the cats. I have posole for you, BTW.)

See what I mean?

Go listen to some music: "The Christmas Song" written by Mel Torme and Bob Wells, and sung by just about everyone.

Everything's not lost

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 07:40:00 +0000

Eighteen years ago, I was pregnant. Because I'd miscarried my first pregnancy, I focused on getting through the first trimester. Three months, I thought, and then all will be well.

The danger of knowing too little.

Well, of course, that was the most naive thought in the world, but I'd never been a parent. When the son had his first birthday, all I could think about was that he'd survived his first year, safe and healthy. I hadn't dropped him on his head, or my greatest fear, missed some desperately important symptom that would tell me he had meningitis or some terrible genetic anomaly.

The danger of knowing too much.

We knew what he was from the moment of birth, one of those wide-awake children who want to know it all, do it all, see it all, be it all. He was his mother, through and through. He was also a terribly frustrated infant because he was bored. Life got a little easier when he could do some things for himself. Ah, those times when I found him back in his room, reading to his toy trains, or putting Chapstick on their faces. I remember his excited and confused face when he awoke from a vivid dream. And there was his imagination--it knew no bounds, whether he was building weaponry out of plastic vegetables or recounting stories of a world of his own making. Such a bright spark.

I've written, ad nauseum probably, about the challenges of growing up profoundly gifted and of raising a profoundly gifted kid. But there is joy in both as well, a strange joy that is as complicated as the gift itself.

I can't say how many hours of sleep I've lost over this kid. I followed my gut. I followed common sense. I followed love. I instilled discipline. I instilled responsibility. I instilled morality.

I worried.

I know what it is to grow up isolated. I know what it is to hide. I know what it is to feel like an imposter in all I do. I know what it's like to want to reach out to the rest of world and not know how to do it. I didn't want that for him.

I raged. I fought. I was sick with despair. I ignored the fashion, the herd, the conventional wisdom. I paid for it. But I ran with my heart and my head; I let him run with his.

And I worried. I feared that in my stubbornness and hubris, I would ruin him. That I was, in fact, doing it wrong.

But he's grown into this amazing person. We see it, his teachers see it, his friends see it, others see it.

None of this has ever been about me. I know too many people who want to exploit their children's status to elevate their own. I have my own gifts, my own life, my own loves. Raising him has been about him, about allowing him his gifts, about giving him the love, the understanding, the support and even the tough talk to enable him to use them well, but in a way of his choosing.

Bit by bit, especially in the last year, things are falling together. He's stubborn, too, but he'll figure it out. He's close to launch, and I think he'll be alright. I'm coming to the place where I've given him about all the guidance that I can, at least for now, but I think I'll be turning him over to those who are capable of helping him to continue his journey.

I'm not so naive anymore to think it will be all smooth sailing, but I hope the bumps are few and minor.

That's the reality of knowing enough.

Go listen to some music: "Everything's Not Lost" from the album Parachutes by Coldplay. The son received his first college acceptance today. The relief and gratitude is immense. The fun of figuring out how to pay for it is just beginning, and we await more news as the week progresses.

Trace amounts

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 01:33:00 +0000

Interesting article today: Some Asians' college strategy: Don't check 'Asian'.

The line that everyone was fed when I was a child was that everyone is created equal. This came in the wake of the civil rights movement of the mid-1960s, and I was happy to believe it. I never thought any differently of the kids with whom I went to school based on their skin color, religion, whatever, and my friends were of all different colors and beliefs. People who weren't my friends were those who had personal qualities that I didn't like: the bullies, the mean, and the intentionally stupid. While my parents were largely wise enough to keep their mouths shut about how they might have felt about this, in the early 1970s, the only thing that was really a big deal was the woman who was divorced and raising her son on her own. Everyone whispered about that.

(I only met her a few times because her son was in my class for a couple of years. What struck me first was that she was tall and pretty in her blonde bouffant. The second was the air of sadness in her smile but I always put that down to the fact that her son was a creep. Other reasons didn't occur to me until I was much older.)

In any event, relations amongst the races and religions was peaceful in our neighborhood, and pretty much everyone was represented on the teams and in the classrooms. Again, while I've no idea what the adults were thinking, the kids clearly didn't think much about it. Interracial dating at my high school? You bet. Crossing religious lines? Yup. My high school boyfriend came from a conservative Jewish family, which didn't sit especially well with either set of parents, given my conservative Catholic background.

When did they start asking the race question on forms? I don't know. But I remember the first time I didn't answer the question: my PSAT test. And I remember the process by which I chose not to answer it: everyone says race doesn't matter. Well, then it doesn't matter.

It still doesn't matter. Ladies and gentleman, you can not have it both ways. Either race and ethnicity always count, if you can even accurately define either, or they never count.

(You can read here how I cheerfully made hash out of one HR manager's attempt to pigeonhole me.)

I raised my kids not to fill in those boxes either, and there was a memorable day when the daughter was in junior kindergarten when race and ethnicity happened to come up in classroom conversation. The daughter politely declined to claim any particular label and a boy (Caucasian, different ethnicity) said derisively to the daughter, "You're WHITE!" And the daughter jumped to her feet, drawing herself up to her full 4-year-old height, and yelled, "I am NOT. I am PINK!"

And I still cry with laughter when I tell this story. And pride because no one puts the daughter in a box.

So, as the son is filling out his college applications, he hums and sighs and skips the race box.

"No worries," I tell him soothingly. "They don't list Mossacubian as a choice anyway."

Go listen to some music: "Trace Amounts" from the album Halo: The Soundtrack by Martin O'Donnell & Michael Salvatori. Consider this: most people don't know the difference between race and ethnicity anyway. Given my Heinz 57 ethnicity, racially I could be anything regardless of what I might appear to be visually. And doesn't that pretty much apply to EVERYONE? So sorry, I don't play that game.

...will you read my book?

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 06:33:00 +0000

While I could write about my dislike of social media and my pleasure in beating that game rather than playing it, or why Feedburner is driving me bonkers (why would you purchase a service and then just leave it to rot? No support, and if the damn thing's broken, which it is, again, the only thing you can do is taunt Feedburner on Twitter. Yeah, guilty) or why I refuse to buy anything from Talbots anymore, all that is so negative.

So, let's talk books.

At the moment, I'm reading Haruki Murakami's 1Q84, which is very Murakami, meaning it's quite different. Then again, I read a lot of contemporary Japanese novels, so I have a pretty good idea of what I'm in for. So far, I'm engaged. (For what it's worth, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles is one of my favorite books in any language.)

Prior to taking on that tome (almost 1,000 pages), I read Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending, which is just wickedly written. And amazingly short. That isn't to say it's too short, because it's really quite perfect. But this is one of those cases where the writing and structure is all. Without the power of his words, Barnes' story would be just another mundane account of a mundane life.

Before that, it was Margaret Atwood's frighteningly gleeful romp through a horrifying dystopia, Oryx and Crake. Maybe it's because I follow Atwood on Twitter and see her often mischievous and funny commentary there, but the black humor of this story seemed much in evidence to me. ChickieNobs...for crying out loud. These days, it's rare for me to find a book that I don't want to put down, but this one was so addictive that I launched straight into its companion, The Year of the Flood, as soon as I finished. It's accurate to say that I enjoyed the second book as well, though it feels strange to use "enjoy" in the context of a story that features sweet-looking canines called wolvogs that lure you in with their excited waggy tails and then eat you. I hope the third book materializes.

(I was a bit surprised to realize that I've been reading Atwood for more than 20 years, starting with The Edible Woman when I was in college.)

And because I'm suddenly overwhelmingly tired, that's it for this edition of "What's on my Nightstand."

Good night.

Go listen to some music: "Paperback Writer" by The Beatles.

Serenade for winds: I. Moderato, quasi marcia

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 06:19:00 +0000

Several days ago, the orange banner started streaming across the bottom of our TV set, warning of impending doom: a cold Santa Ana condition. According to the National Weather Service, Orange County was among the three counties expected to see the brunt of it. And they were talking winds of 50 mph with gusts up to 80 mph.

If you've had to withstand winds of 80 mph, you know it's not a lot of fun. The noise alone is enough to drive me mad. The year the daughter was born, we had to deal with a night of 120 mph winds (as measured by the Jet Propulsion Lab below our mesa), which left us without power for 4 days.

Really not fun.

So I spent the early part of the week getting stuff out of harm's way. The patio furniture, and the little lights that are around. Made sure that I had batteries for the lanterns, that necessary laundry was done, and there was food that could be easily cooked on the stove.

(Here's something to think about: if the power goes out, so does everything that runs on electricity. This is why my cooktop and water heater are both gas powered. Even if it's dark, I can cook and everyone can bathe... Trust me, this has come in handy on more than one occasion, to the envy of those in all-electric kitchens. And I'd be solar powered if it didn't cost about half of what my house is worth to install the panels.)

So, we hunkered down and waited for 7pm Wednesday night when Windmageddon was slated to begin.

But all was quiet. Around 9pm, I checked the news. To my surprise, I discovered that LAX was diverting flights because of heavy cross winds, and power was down all over LA County. I received an email from my MIL--who was sitting in the dark with her iPad--entitled "Blowing off the hill." I went to bed at 11 and peacefully slept through the night.

Upon waking, we were greeted with horrible photos out of Pasadena. Trees were down; buildings and cars were smashed.

The leaves out my window barely fluttered in the dawning light.

Around 9am, I finally raised my FIL on his cell phone. Their power was still down, so they couldn't get the cars out of the garage, but it sounded too dangerous to go out anyway. They were remarkably cheerful chatting about broken planters and another relative's market umbrellas floating about in the swimming pool.

I went out to run errands, bothered by no more than a stray breeze.

Finally, about an hour before I was due to pick up the daughter, we got some pretty substantial gusts and one of my garbage bins tipped over. By then, we'd been downgraded to a wind advisory.

I'm not disappointed that our adverse weather failed to materialize. I know there's plenty of time yet for us to see a really bad windstorm. I feel sorry for those who have to deal with the mess in LA County. I was especially unhappy to see that Altadena's Christmas Tree Lane lost trees. My friends and I used to visit every Christmas to see the lights when we were in college, and later, the spouse and I took the kids there every year. The deodars are huge, and at the holidays, resplendent in their lights.

And like the holidays, the Santa Anas are a yearly event, but definitely one I could live without.

Go listen to some music: "Serenade for Winds, Op. 44: I. Moderato, quasi marcia" by Dvorak. I guess my plotting to bring the in-laws down here paid off because their power came back on at midday so I could stop worrying.

Take another little piece of my heart now

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 05:55:00 +0000

Today, the Angels traded young pitcher Tyler Chatwood for Rockies catcher Chris Iannetta. The speculation is that veteran Angels catcher Jeff Mathis won't be offered a new contract. This makes me sad. I like Mathis; he works hard, and defensively he's a pretty good player. Offensively, he could stand to improve--a lot. Then again, you could say that about a lot of the Angels.

I know that these days especially, sports are a business, and GMs live and breathe player stats. Fine. But I also like Mathis because he seems like a good guy. With all the not-good people running around professional sports, being a good person wins a lot of points with me. I appreciate those who are good-natured; who try to be leaders in their communities, whether it's a clubhouse or a neighborhood; and who understand that it's best to leave ego out of the equation. That's pretty true of how I look at everyone, though, whether it's the people down the street, the guy who collects my garbage, the person who delivers the mail, the player on the field, the actor on the screen, the band on the stage. Nice person, hard worker, does his/her best at the job--that is the way to win my heart. Stats, yeah, stats are great: Oscars, gold records, most catalogs delivered, biggest zucchini on the block. Those aren't the measure of the person, though, and not always an indicator of the talent.

I've always followed the players. I get some grief about being sentimental, but that's ok. That's part of the measure of me.

Go listen to some music: "Piece of My Heart" from the album Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company.

Don abandons Alice

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 06:23:00 +0000

The daughter, in a worried voice: "Mommy, what would you do if I became a zombie?"

Me, in light and reassuring tones: "Lock you in the shed like on Shaun of the Dead and play Xbox with you."

The daughter giggled.

Me: "And feed you the occasional chicken."

The daughter, distressed again: "But don't break its leg first!"

Me: "You know I wouldn't do that. I'd just buy you Rosie Organic chickens from the grocery. Only the best for my zombie daughter. Okay?"

The daughter, yanking hard on my neck to hug me: "Okay."

Go listen to some music: "Don Abandons Alice" from the album 28 Weeks Later (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) by John Murphy. This Q&A is brought to you by last night's episode of AMC's The Walking Dead, and no, no one gave me anything to mention either the show or the chicken.

The Nutcracker Ballet: Arrival of Drosselmeyer

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 05:05:00 +0000

The mincemeat pie went in the oven at 6:45 am. The pumpkin pie followed at 7:15 am. That was the flow of my day.

By 10 am, the turkey had been wrangled, stuffed, into the waiting oven. The cat sat on the bar stool nearest and kept careful watch on the bird. Just in case it should jump up on its trussed legs and try to run away.

The grandparents, bearing gifts and appetizers, arrived a little after noon.

The son peeled potatoes and mixed green bean casserole. The daughter formed and set the cloverleaf rolls to rise.

The gravy boiled and boiled and boiled.

Talk and football ebbed and flowed from the family room. The usual fuss was made that I was working too hard. A bigger fuss was made about my back. I waved them off.

By 2 pm, both ovens were hard at work, filled with casseroles and bread and turkey. The gravy boiled.

I mashed potatoes, and gave plates from my wedding china to the daughter to put on dining room table. The crystal sparkled. The gravy boiled.

Wine was poured and blessings were said as I bustled to and from the kitchen with hot dishes. Finally, everything was on the table, and I sat. Toasts were made and bread was passed and broken. The grandparents opined that they were very fortunate that they had our calm and quiet little house to visit for the meal (they were also invited to a larger and far less intimate gathering but chose us instead). I watched as everyone ate the meal I'd spent the day working on, trading the salt for the butter, asking for refills of gravy, or another turkey leg, celebrating the daughter's rolls and the son's green beans.

Food is nourishment, but a meal, thoughtfully prepared, is an act of love. I am not patting myself on the back; this is a communal effort and this year, putting dinner together was also an act of will, but I feel the press of time. Every year, I am faced with the realization there may not be another meal like this; next year, the son is likely to be elsewhere, and my in-laws are octogenarians. But every year that I cook Thanksgiving dinner is a fixed point in time, immutable, a point where we are all together, making the same silly jokes ("clink the glasses!" my mother-in-law always says gleefully), eating the same basic meal, a moment when neither the past nor the future figures, no matter our ages or whether the gravy was thick or thin.

And I watched the assembled company raising glasses filled with the wine my father-in-law brought or sparkling apple cider, and I was conscious of that moment, of what I'd created, of what we'd all created together as a family, and I was thankful.

Go listen to some good music: "The Nutcracker Ballet: Arrival of Drosselmeyer" from the album Tchaikovsky: The Nutcracker performed by Sir Simon Rattle and the Berliner Philharmoniker. For those unfamiliar with the ballet, Drosselmeyer is a magician.

Can't you wait for me?

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 04:14:00 +0000

On the heels of the Death Migraine came the Cold from Hell (thank you, darling daughter). This is the sort of virulent virus you expect to get when your wee ones are in school for the first time, not into their teens. I would blog but not only can I not think straight, I can't stop sneezing. I look like one of the horrible Nyquil commercials with the baggy watery eyes and red, runny nose. So it's me and a box of Kleenex.

(Okay, several boxes of Kleenex. I had to run out this morning in extremis and buy five more boxes because the son now has it, too.)

And yes, I have guests coming, starting Wednesday...

But I told the spouse, and I meant it, I'll take two weeks of this over one day of stomach flu.

(crossing fingers)

Be back soon.

(fingers crossed)

Go listen to some good music: "The Twister" from the album ...undone by The Lucy Show. This album always screams Thanksgiving to me. I listened to it non-stop during one of the most difficult Novembers of my life. This is undone...

Autumn knowingly stared

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 22:42:00 +0000

Coming off a 6-day cluster/migraine/tension headache combo. This one played cat and mouse for a bit--now you feel me, now you don't--but the wave crashed big Saturday morning. Fortunately, it's usually years between events like this.

Given the way the year has run, not a surprise it happened now, I suppose.

But other stuff is in the offing. Thanksgiving is next week, and of course, I have dinner guests to plan for. The menu will be pretty much the same as last year, though I'm bagging the cornbread dressing (no one liked it, including me) for the more traditional chestnut variety. I'm not allowed much deviation from the standards, especially this year since the son is worrying this might be his last Thanksgiving at home for awhile.

(Another college interview coming up. No wonder I'm getting death migraines.)

And times flows onward.

Go listen to some good music: "Gold Dust" from the album Scarlet's Walk by Tori Amos.

And dreaming I'm alive

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

The days slide away, lost in other work, other responsibilities, a black hole called life.

I try to see the last year, to visualize what has occurred.

So much is blank, especially in the first six months of the year. Paralysis not only of the body, but of the mind.

I don't want to deal with the darkness. I want to move forward, always forward, and I have no desire to dwell on the bad. I have lived with chronic ills for so long, and I have no patience for limits or lack thereof. I figure out ways around, through if necessary, and fight to regain as much ground as I can.

A spinal injury has proved much more difficult to conquer.

When the kids were babies, we noticed that they would become extremely fussy in the days before they hit some developmental milestone, before they made some tremendous leap forward.

Recovery has been something like that: milestones, small rewards for really good behaviour. It has been a learning experience, my body the teacher, and my willful brain the student. I never want to give anything up, make any concessions. I never want to stop what I am doing.

The surgeon warned me recovery would be slow. He also expressed concern over whether I'd be willing to wait this out, whether I realized how long this road would be, whether I could find the patience. It's been ten and one-half months.

Over the summer, the pain ramped up again. The consensus seems to be that the disc tore open further. At that point, I was ready to schedule surgery.

But then, the pain backed off again. It was at that point that I saw the pattern: often the greatest pain came before the biggest leap forward. The day I couldn't even move my leg off the table to the day when I was lifting it with a three-pound weight attached. I'll not regain all the use or sensation in my leg--I still start with surprise when my hand brushes the part that is dead--but I have most of it back, and other muscles have learned to take over the burden of the muscles that have been weakened. Mostly now I walk straight and true, with only rare traces of a limp or debility. If you didn't know me, it would probably be hard to tell that there is a problem.

So, progress it is then. And closer to fine.

Go listen to some good music: "Hysteria" from the album Absolution by Muse.

Never was there ever a cat so clever

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 04:42:00 +0000

After I waved off the spouse and daughter this morning, I turned to find Olivier, Neighborhood Cat About Town, lying on the sisal mat before my front door. He looked over at me, let out his harsh miaou, stood and wrapped his tail around the front post, his mien expectant. I walked over and briefly stroked him with one finger between the ears--he can be unpredictable and mean--and he lifted his head and blinked at me in the way that cats tell you that they love you.

Or that they will love you if you feed them.

It never fails to amaze me that somewhere in his silly cat brain, he recalls that I took care of him a long, long time ago. That the onset of cold and rain reminds him that he found safe haven, food and a warm bed in the same place he was curled this morning. That even though he has a devoted family of his own with whom he lives quite happily, he returns to me when winter threatens.

And expects that I will feed him.

Cats.

Go listen to some good music: "Mr. Mistoffelees" from the album Cats (Original Broadway Cast Recording).

Hatchet, ax and saw

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 00:23:00 +0000

The light has changed. Time has changed.

The shadows lengthen early; at 1:30, it looks more like late afternoon, and the air is crisp and bright after the rain. Light sparkles and cracks. "Hectic" is the word that always comes to mind.

The translucent wings of some tiny creatures refract the light as they zig zag crazily through the golden air. Phoebe chases after them, swooping and darting, and it's quiet enough that I can hear her tiny beak snap as it closes on each hapless insect. She and her mate peep and make happy noises while they flit about in hot pursuit of dinner.

Small death giving small life. The food chain.

Last week was nuts.

Our lot is large. The house is not large, but adequate. So there's a lot of square footage on which there is no house. A good deal of it is occupied by trees.

Really freaking huge trees. A forty-foot pine. Six thirty-foot ficus. A twenty-foot olive with a three-foot diameter trunk. An enormous magnolia. A tall, skinny eucalyptus. And bit players like orange, lemon, kaffir lime, tangelo and purple plum. Not to mention a multi-trunked crepe myrtle.

(There used to be more trees. We pulled out 20 dead fruit trees the summer after we moved in. Of course, we hadn't known they were dead, but we bought the house in the winter. Let that be a lesson to you.)

Tree-trimming is a yearly event, and because the pine needs to be done in cold weather, the crew is usually out here this time of year. Back when we bought the place, I hired an arborist--the only position I've ever thought of as household staff--to help me keep up with this situation.

The arborist and I talked at the end of September, and the office called to schedule the work. The day came, and I waited. And waited. Finally, the office called to tell me there'd be a double crew showing up at 11. And they did. And they started by eating their lunch.

The foreman and I talked. The arborist showed up and we talked. The guys got to work. More talk. More work.

I will admit that tree trimming day is the one day of the year where I'm pretty much in a state of non-stop panic. I know these guys are trained. Well-insured. But they are hanging a huge distance off the ground from my tree. Swinging power tools back and forth. The electrical lines run back there. Really, it's enough to give me a heart attack.

(Yes, too many years of disaster work. Also, when you read of some of the accidents that happen...)

Then it was getting close to the end of the day, and suddenly, the trucks were gone and there were ladders on the ground and ropes hanging from the tree. They were nowhere near being finished.

The next day, the Santa Ana winds kicked up. "It's too dangerous," said the arborist.

"I do not want them in my trees when the wind is blowing," I said with great feeling.

They returned Thursday. Branches and limbs fell and were roped down. The chipper started up four different times. The street looked as though I'd removed an entire forest.

I'd made an executive decision over the summer to remove the olive tree. I've got a half formed plan to build an extra room off that side of the house, but more, I need light for the vegetable garden. When I told the arborist to put its removal on the estimate, he groaned a little with anguish.

"I understand, though," he said.

I felt guilty, I admit. My back garden has become home to a large number of different birds, and I try to maintain a good balance to keep it tidy, but natural. The olive was a pretty and mature tree, albeit a messy one.

I couldn't watch last week when they cut it down. When I finally looked, they'd just cut away the last hunk of trunk. The trimmer saw me looking through the window and he gestured to the stump. I nodded.

When they'd cleared enough away, I went out to look and I walked over to the trunk, so much larger in death than it had ever seemed in life. It was then that I saw the truth, the cancer growing in the tree's heartwood, a six-inch diameter ring of wet rot that had devoured the inner portion of part of the trunk. It had already taken hold in another portion of the trunk as well. The tree probably wouldn't have lasted another two years.

The day was ending and the foreman told me they'd be back another day to grind the stump.

The house is filled with light, and the trees that remain are lifted and tidier, raising their branches to the heavens. But I look out the window and there is a hole in the vista, a huge new patch of sky that replaces the grey green leaves and gnarled branches of the olive. The stump still remains, a silent reproach.

Even knowing it was diseased, not long for this world, I am sad at the loss of the tree. A little death, perhaps, but one that may give larger life come the spring.

Go listen to some good music: "The Trees" from the album Hemispheres by Rush.

From the start in your own way

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 04:55:00 +0000

This week has been brutal. And it's only Wednesday.

Still, a victory. If you read the photo blog, you've seen some of what when on. I'll leave it, but yes. Victory.

And there's been more. A grieving friend. Mediating a crisis.

Oh, and the son and his college applications. And the financial aid applications, which are like doing the taxes without the records.

The space in which I'm traveling.

Somehow, with grace. I don't always. I am impatient. My most grievous fault. I've no interest in explaining what is clear to me, what should be clear to everyone. If there is a problem, dispatch it, quickly and thoroughly. If you've got an issue, communicate it, politely and promptly. Don't leave it to fester and grow, a canker.

Somewhere, I found grace. Somewhere, I found calm. Somewhere, I found the right words.

A new month. It always feels like a clean slate. But this one got off on the wrong foot, and it's left me feeling dejected, oddly bereft.

And yes, it's November. I always participate in two things in November. This year, it's only one, the hard one that requires 50,000 words. I'm no longer part of the one that I always finish. Ownership changed, and the new platform is one with which I've no wish to associate.

From the start in my own way.

My life may be a puzzle, but at least I know where I fit.

Go listen to some good music: "Square One" from the album X&Y by Coldplay. Nope, that wasn't planned, Coldplay two entries running. The randomizer picked up the song, and it just hit that nerve. This is one of those songs I feel physically. My head is pretty much elsewhere, though, to be honest.

Para-para-para-DISE!

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 03:07:00 +0000

The drive too and from the daughter's school is generally unspeakable. I drive the route at rush hour, which just adds to the fun, but there are railroad tracks and commuter trains, and the good people of Santa Ana who believe that darting into traffic is a great idea.

Over the last three months, I've gotten reasonably accustomed to the circus on the road, but there are still days that make me roll my eyes. One day the railroad signal was broken and the lights flashed red non-stop and the arms went up and down at random, and sometimes a train went by and sometimes it didn't. So, it took half an hour to go about 3 blocks as drivers clenched their teeth and made a dash across both the tracks and a major intersection. An excellent time was had by all.

Generally, by the time I get to the daughter's school and get parked, I need a moment to compose myself. Then, by the time I've collected her and gotten back out of downtown, I'm usually a little more relaxed.

Today, driving up the other thoroughfare toward home, I commented, "I can NOT get that song 'Paradise' out of my head."

"I've had a calliope version of 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?' stuck in my head all day," the daughter grumped. "They played it on the announcements."

"Ew," I sympathized.

And then she began to sing it. Loudly.

"Okay," I told her. "I get the picture."

And on she went.

"It was PARA! PARA! PARA-DISE!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs to counter the horrible ditty she was singing.

"Mom!" she said, recoiling a little.

"Well..." I temporized.

"RUN TO THE HILLS RUN FO-OR YOUR LIVES," she bellowed, taking advantage of the lull I'd created.

"You keep that up and I'll sing 'Small World,'" I threatened.

"Hey, I was going to sing that next," she said sulkily.

By the time we got home, the car was ringing with a mash-up of all four.

Go listen to some good music: "Paradise" from the album Mylo Xyloto by Coldplay.

But you can dip your feet every once in awhile

noreply@blogger.com (guerrilla girl) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 02:05:00 +0000

A Very Famous Author reportedly will be visiting the daughter's school. She has been contemplating how to speak with him should the appropriate moment present itself, since the gentleman in question is very approachable and evidently enjoys talking with his fans.

"Just tell him how much you've enjoyed his books, and that one of them inspired you to go into filmmaking and to audition for the school," I advised.

"But how do I end the conversation?" she fretted.

"'Thank you for your time' works pretty well," I told her.

She looked at me doubtfully.

"Well, you could try 'will you marry me?'" I tossed over my shoulder as I left her room.

"Moooooooom-MMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Her wail followed me down the hall.

Fourteen. It is the best age.

Go listen to some good music: "When You Were Young" from the album Sam's Town by The Killers. Granted, I've never tried that, though I've occasionally wondered what would happen if I did.