MORNING

You know how it is waking
from a dream certain you can fly
and that someone, long gone, returned

and you are filled with longing,
for a brief moment, to drive off
the road and feel nothing

or to see the loved one and feel
everything. Perhaps one morning,
taking brush to hair you'll wonder

how much of your life you've spent
at this task or signing your name
or rising in fog in near darkness

to ready for work. Day begins
with other people's needs first
and your thoughts disperse like breath.

In the in-between hour, the solitary hour,
before day begins all the world
gradually reappears car by car.

A poem by Deborah Ager

GNASHING MY TEETH

So, I was at the dentist's yesterday. I don't know about you, but I loathe dentistry and I am not super fond of the masochists working in this field. So I am high strung (to say the least) when I arrive. I'm getting some very old fillings replaced. Which is super sucky because this is clearly OPTIONAL. I don't have new cavities, these are the same cavities that I had to suffer through having filled as a child. Which is clearly the root of all of my unreasonable hatred for dentistry. I guarantee you that bastard dentist of my childhood didn't mention that I would have to REDO the fillings he was putting into my head. Fucking asshole.

So, I want nitrous oxide. That way, I won't want to die and take others with me in a blaze of semi-automatic glory. Not that I brought the semi, I'm just saying. Anyway, I request the pig nose. So the assistant fidgets around (obviously irritated) and gets it strapped to my head. Only after I have been breathing this joyous cocktail of loveliness for about 5 minutes does the receptionist come in and let me know that my insurance does not cover the nitrous, so I'll have to pay $35 dollars for the first hour, but the doctor assures her that it won't take longer than an hour.

Did you notice what I noticed? That she asked me while I was high. Like I could give legal consent at that point. WTF?

So, I inform her that the insurance won't be paying one red cent if I haul my ass out of the chair that very minute and go to my car. We agree to continue the conversation later.

Shortly thereafter the doctor leans me back in the chair pumps me full of novocain and he and the assistant come at me with the dental dam. Now, I've never seen a dental dam at the dentist's office. I've seen it at health fairs in SF and on websites for adult toys. And the suggested use had nothing to do with what I was about to experience. And strangely, I am not excited by either use.

While attaching this bright purple dental dam to my head, the assistant decides to chat me up. Luckily she wasn't starting a conversation about my favorite author or the celebrity sighting she had with that gorgeous actor that will be starring in the new show on NBC this season.

Nope, nothing like that.

Here is how our chat went:

Her: You have a lot of saliva.

Me: Uhhh.

Her: Boy do you have a lot of saliva.

Me: Uhh rhh.

Her: You sure do have a lot of saliva.

Me: Ohh ruhh.

Her: I'll have to leave the suction in your mouth because you have so much saliva.

Me: Uhhh!

Her: Wow. You're still drooling a lot. I don't think I've ever seen this much.

This is the cliff notes version. Cause that lady can talk a blue streak when she finds a subject that interests her, let me tell you. I heard more about my own slobber and my hyperactive saliva glands in that hour than I will hear about ALL OTHER SPIT ON THE PLANET for the entirety of the rest of my life. Including every mention of dribble before this day. I surpassed my lifetime maximum for spittle chatting. So there's that.

During all of this she was shoving her hands in and out of the accessible half of my mouth (remember the dam?). At one point she came at me with a gun kind of thingie and pointed it at my teeth and pulled the trigger.

Me: Uhhs haa?

Her: What?

Me: UHHS HAA?

Her: Oh, this? This is the UV light gun.

Me: Uhh hho?

Her: What for? Oh, to set the composite. So your teeth will be pretty. Wow, listen to that suction. That is so loud. You sure have a lot of saliva.

Composite? What is that? Um, OK. Whatever. I'm still high and I want to go back to breathing in my champagne.

FINALLY they finish. Actually I figured it out a few minutes before that cause she had reached over me to turn down the nitrous. Bitch.

So, after she pulls out the dam, wipes off my face ("My goodness, you have a lot-" "YES, I know. I understand. I have more spit than anyone you have ever seen before, lady. I get it." Except I don't say it that clearly because only 1/4 of my muscles in my mouth work so my droopy lips attempt to put her in her place, but do not succeed) she says to me, "So, you new filling is composite and this may make your teeth really sensitive so you should avoid hot and cold foods."

"For how long? Today? A week?" again, not very clearly. Novocain and drool mopping and all.

"Oh, no. Forever. Some peoples' teeth are very sensitive forever after getting composite fillings. Hot and cold foods can cause them a great deal of pain."

Oh no. She did not. Did she just say that I can't eat hot OR cold food forever? Because of this stupid fucking OPTIONAL filling? Cause if that really is what she said, I'm officially going to lose my shit. All those fantasies about choking the crap out of some useless human being are going to be realised in this exam room, here and now.

I suspect my dentist saw the massacre unfolding in my eyes because Dr. Quiet finally spoke up.

"Actually, you shouldn't have any problems. Your fillings are very shallow. The dentist who filled them the first time did a great job of not drilling too deep and there was minimal decay so the composite isn't anywhere near the nerve. I think you'll be very happy with the look of the composite rather than the metal and you needn't worry about sensitivity to temperature unless you already have that issue."

Thank god for the voice of reason in the midst of buckets of my drool and my murderous intentions.

And really, the teeth look and feel great now. And my lips are moving where I want them to. And my drooling has returned to a manageable level.

I EAT MERELY TO PUT FOOD OUT OF MY MIND

I don't eat while I cook. Not at all. Nothing.

Funny. Quirky. But no big deal, right?

I would say so, too. Except that I know what that means on a different level. I don't eat means that I don't taste. I shamelessly serve food that might be horrible.

In fact, I have served horrible food. Soups and beans that are too salty (I suspect that forgot that I had already salted them). I once made a fruit salad with a yogurt "dressing" with what must have been The Great Lost Yogurt From the Back of the Fridge. It tasted like Pine Sol. Gag!

Then there is a nectarine crisp in my culinary history that will long be remembered. I made it while (very) pregnant with my first (eleven pound) child. I think I was so swollen and sweaty and pathetic that the group of gentlemen eating this crisp were struck dumb. And possibly they were concerned that if they told me there was NO SUGAR in the crisp that I had made with my own two puffy pregnant hands, I might just impale them on the tomato stakes in the back yard and bury their lifeless ungrateful bodies in the vegetable patch. Or something like that. So they silently choked it down. And they didn't make eye contact. And still, I didn't learn.

It is unreasonable, I know. To be touching and smelling and mixing and preparing foods; to be thinking about flavor combinations and complimentary flavors and sweet/salty and creamy/crunchy balance and food groups and nutrition; to be mentally enveloped in the experience of making foods - why the fuck wouldn't I want to taste any of it? Wouldn't you think I'd get hungry? I would! But I don't.

I think I can trace it back to my sophomore year microbiology class. I did a report on salmonella. As I'm sure you already know, salmonella is a genus of rod-shaped Gram-negative enterobacteria that causes typhoid fever, paratyphoid fever, and foodborne illness. Lots and lots of foodborne illness.

While these infections would normally only require a treatment of antibiotics, if not resolved naturally, the long-term usage of antibiotics in both the poultry and beef industries may have created a strain of salmonella which is potentially resistant to antibiotics (Thank you wikipedia).

I think of this every time I prepare food. And it is surprisingly not appetizing. Hence, the not eating. At least I think that's what it is. Whatever.

Most of the time my food is untasted. These dishes, of which I could only guess the flavor*, have never killed anyone. Least of all the cook. Thank you obsessive hand washing and 75 kitchen towels.

But I really, really love sushi.

Is that so wrong?


On another note:

I am religious in my belief that seasons and the weather dictate the food that should be served. Tonight, a chilly but sunny, "Hey! It's fall. Really, fall feels exactly like this!" kind of night, we are having... dun, dun, duhhhhh......

Baked Potatoes. With butter and sour cream and lots of salt and pepper. MMmmmm...



* It would be an educated guess, but a guess none the less.

NO EXERCISE BUT RESTING AND SLEEPING

WE'LL SLEEP WHEN WE'RE DEAD posted over at Kiddos on a Mountain. Check it out if you are so inclined.


I'm going to sleep now.

MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

It's only 11:15 right now. The night of Maddy's slumber party. So far so good, but I'm ready for sleep. I may have a long night ahead of me.

I made each child agree that 11:30 was quiet time. I made the parents leave contact info on a form I provided so I don't have to search to hell and back to come up with the nighttime number if should need to reach them. One of the moms from the new school asked me if I was a teacher. (No, just a former tech writer. Oy vey.)



Here is a shot of my kid. She's happy. Imagine 8 happy girls having fun with her. Got that picture? Now imagine them doing warm up games, big art projects, dinner, presents, cupcakes and ice cream, dancing to HSM2, nail painting, board games and puzzles, truth or dare, spin the bottle (what? I have no idea - but no kissing), and movie watching. We didn't get to the bunko. Or the karaoke. But the night is still young.


Our neighbors stopped by. OK, I had called them with a false die emergency (I didn't think we had enough dice for bunko - not that we ended up playing the game, but the situation was remedied with ransacking all of our board games, so emergency averted). Anyway, after my call I think they wanted to make sure I wasn't losing my mind. Here is Bob with his beautiful son and daughter. Not officially checking up on me. But kinda, maybe.


More importantly, here are Nicholas and Cambria up close. They woke up shortly after this and we got to hold them and kiss them. Yeah! That is the very best kind of visit. I love them and feel so lucky to have them nearby every day but especially on slumber party night.


Here is the art project we had them do. Each girl decorated 2 wooden blocks with cut paper, known as paper piecing. One block needed to be monkey - that one goes to Madigan. The other is to take home. We have a bear, a sea cucumber, an afro dog, and a LOT of monkeys. The project was a huge hit and Maddy will have these works of art to remember her 10th birthday for years to come. Awesome.


And since I am the Crummy Cupcake - here are the rolled fondant monkey cupcakes I made. Kinda crummy, dontcha think. Just what I was going for.

I will post more on Kiddos when I get the express written permission from all of the parents involved. Stay tuned. I have some lovely pics of the girls on their adventures. What a delightful thing that I get to help my kid celebrate her birth with this amazing group of girls. I am feeling very grateful and a little guilty that I was so nervous.

I say that now, but the night is not over yet...

LAME IS THE COLOR OF MY LIFE

So, I really want to watch the PBS special on the Mormons. I have no explanation. Whatever with me.

Also, I've been thinking of ways to spend some time with my son's first grade class. Some project or activity. I fall back on the cooking thing, cause I like it (though not as much with 20 six year-olds). So I'm thinking pickles. Making pickles is fun, right? And sour is different than sweet. Obviously. Whadda ya think? Am I a nutjob? Maybe so...

One not lame thing! My friend (and former roommate) Tammy is coming into town with her oldest daughter this weekend from Arizona and is making plans to wear jeans and a sweatshirt for no reason. Just cause she can. I'll be seeing her on Sunday. That is super cool. Also, she is famous in huge circles for being the first EVER girlfriend to turn into a fiance at the Diamondbacks Stadium live on the jumbo tron. And there happens to be a Bud Light Real Men of Genius about her (now) husband. Ever heard of "Mr. Stadium Scoreboard Proposal Guy?" Check it. Love it.

Maddy's slumber party is this weekend. I assumed that some of the girls would not be able to make it so I let her invite a big bunch. Looks like they are all coming. I bet they are gonna fight with one another. I'll give odds that one of them wants to go home before the night is out and that at least 3 (including my own) will cry before dawn. Shit. What the hell is wrong with me? My mother would never have let me do this crap and I turned out great. Nearly perfect in every way.

And I'm done with Rape Crisis Counseling Training. Now I get to start. And I'm scared.

OK, that is it for today.

TWO POEMS BY HAROLD PINTER

Restaurant

No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home



Message

Jill. Fred phoned.
He can't make tonight.
He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.

I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
Don't let the fuckers get you down,
Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,
Go on the town, burn someone to death,
Find another tart, giver her some hammer,
Live while you're young, until it palls,
Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls.

Anyway he'll call again.

I'll be back in time for tea.

Your loving mother.

WHEN HE SAYS SHORT HE'S NOT KIDDING

At 7:40 this morning Levi, 6 years old, flopped himself on the sofa and said:

"Mom, I'm gonna tell you a little story called Mac's Not Eating Vegetables. I put a carrot in his bowl. Long story short - he licked it and walked away. I thought he'd like a healthy snack. Apparently not."

IS IT SO WRONG THAT I LOVE THIS? REALLY, I LOVE IT.

Play it again. You know you want to.

That is good stuff right there.

ALL HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON A LEISURELY BREAKFAST

The kids and I had our first regular sit down breakfast of the school year. I made strawberry banana pancakes. (We ate them with some of the marionberry syrup that our lovely neighbors brought to us from their family trip to Oregon this summer. Yum!)

Making breakfast for my kids is one of the routines that I love about our mornings together. It is a meditation of sorts for me. We'll occasionally have pancakes, waffles and French toast. Regularly we have oatmeal, yogurt with fresh fruit and granola, toast and fruit (often with our homemade jam), and sometimes we'll have eggy breakfast sandwiches (now with local eggs from my lovely neighbor's chickens).

I learned long ago, mostly from my father, that meal preparation is a tangible act of love. In setting the table with our lovely blue and white plates, making minty tea for Maddy in her new happy face mug, letting Levi pour milk on his cereal from a small pitcher, I am loving them. And whether or not they realize this fact, the point is that I know. I must feed them. I choose to make this time a little bit more special when I am able.

These days I am taking some time for quiet and some yoga in the morning. I am cutting back on caffeine and I am often making my bed. I'm never going to be perfect. I may holler at my kids while they eat the meals I prepare. I will fail miserably at things that are important to me some days. But some days I'll do some things well. And I will feel hopeful. Today I feel good about the pancakes.

Even though Maddy said she could do without the bananas. Sigh.

EVERYONE LIKES A GOOD JOINT

My brother and my son chatting about food:

"Have you ever had a Big Mac?"

"No, but I had a half-pounder."

"Really, where did you have that?"

"Some burger joint."

And later:

"What is that place?"

"That's Panda Express."

"What is it?"

"Chinese food."

"Oh, I thought that was a coffee joint."

Hmmm...

Seems to me I need to stop saying joint. Time to start introducing other, less offensive, words for restaurant. Maybe something like bistro, cafeteria, chophouse, hash house, noshery, pit stop, or tearoom.

I'm pretty sure I'm goin' with hash house.

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE NEW SCHOOL

Dinner - Pasta and salad

Dessert - Chocolate chunk cookies that we all make together

After Dinner - Showers, jammies, tooth brushing, hair brushing, reading and worrying

Bedtime - tossing and turning and changing beds and stressing out and possible crying

Everybody ready?

BREAK!

EVERYONE'S ROOTING JUST FOR ME

I know it because Sondre Lerche says so:



I'm feeling pretty good now.

(this was shamelessly swiped from fluid pudding, as it made me feel great, clearly justifying the swiping)

DID I SAY SPRAINED?

Apparently there is a first time for everything, cause I was wrong. It's broke.

TWITTER RECAP

Some days are easy. This wasn't one of those. Ended OK - because kid's arm isn't broken - just sprained. Yup, that's the highpoint.

SEXUAL ASSAULT IS IN THE AIR - EVERY WHERE I LOOK AROUND

I'm going through sexual assault crisis advocacy training right now (through the local YWCA Rape Crisis Center). I'm learning more than I ever wanted to know about myriad violations committed on people. And I swear to god, it is redefining the way I see the world. Lordy.

Harassment - did you know that this is unwanted and unwelcome attention? Of any kind? And it only has to happen one time. So that SUV full of college-age guys saying things out the window to the 15 year old on the corner? They are harassing her. And those guys? They feel like they have the right to talk to pretty girls. But in a big vehicle, in a group, with the age difference - they could be scary. How is she supposed to respond? Should she ignore the comments? What if they call her uptight or a bitch? What if she tells them to fuck off? Will they get out? Will they grab her and throw her in the car? Will they take her some place and do something to her?

I don't know if she's thinking all of this.

But I am.

All. The. Fucking. Time.

I am now well versed in the language of sexual assault:
Rape, unlawful intercourse, incest, molest, sodomy, oral copulation, digital penetration, visual assault, gang rape, human trafficking, and oh, so much more.

I can speak intelligently about domestic violence, the cycle of violence, the power and control wheel and the gagillions of reasons that people will choose not to report a sexual assault or to leave a violent relationship. How our society is a rape supporting society. How more than 60% of children in homes where violence occurs grow up to be violent or violated themselves. Even if they were shielded from the actual violence occurring in their childhood home.

You know what?

I DON'T WANT TO KNOW THIS.

I'm feeling a little nutty. My chest is tight and my head is throbbing. And tomorrow we go to the county hospital where the forensic exams happen. And where I will go if I decide to do this thing. And this hospital is the one where my family spent a lot of time together about a decade ago. Holy shit.

And now I share it with you. Maybe sharing it will make it smaller in my brain. God, I hope so.

VACATION, ALL I EVER WANTED

The rundown:

Morro Bay was delightful. We spent a little time shopping in the cute little shops (looking for t-shirts for the kids) had a delicious lunch with a gorgeous view of sail boats, kayakers and the amazing Morro Rock. Though it was too windy for us, we wanted to rent an electric boat to tool around the bay. Next time.

Fun for the whole family:
The Morro Bay Museum of Natural History
Electric Boat Rental
Kayak Rentals

Next stop, Santa Barbara. We spent 2 days at the sweetest beach, complete with parasailers flying above, a lovely restaurant and a snack bar, totally decent bathrooms and ample parking. What more is there? Well, paddle ball and being buried in the sand. But that's about it. I will mention that we were there during the middle of the week. It is totally likely that on the weekends parking could be a nightmare. But not for us. For us, heaven.

State Street is the awesome shopping district downtown where we spent a couple of evenings. It is the home of The Territory Ahead's flagship store. Here we also found a wonderful respite from vacation food in the Natural Cafe. Levi and I shared a big salad and soup. Maddy had pasta. Healthy and delicious and no fries. Yum.

Stearns Wharf is so beautiful. I am not overstating it when I say that the wharf is not to be missed. I've not yet seen a photo that captures how lovely it all is. Make the trip. Totally worth it.

We visited the Mission Santa Barbara (and we did get credit for this holy act from my mother in law). It was hot. And quiet. I'm not a huge fan of mission history. On the other hand the Natural History Museum, just down the street, was a delight! Mostly because of the beautiful Butterflies Alive exhibit. Bright and muted colors, fluttering everywhere, every flower and leaf alive with quick and tiny movements. A slice of heaven. Maddy did not agree. But she and Levi both did enjoy the Grossology Exhibit. The Barfometer, the Urine Game, snot, poop, and burps. Remind me to tell you about the kids father getting a big whiff of the bacteria commonly found in the anus. Good times.

I can tell you what was not such a good time. Solvang. Kinda lame. Very cutsie and touristy - and that is about it. We went to the Hans Christian Anderson museum. Also hot and quiet. We left with a book and not much else. Pastries for my brother, pretzel and fudge and t-shirts and sweatshirts and a little wooden shoe magnet for us. Cause the entire purpose of the town is to make people like us buy that crap. Mission accomplished.

And now we are home. And tired. And the laundry is still not done. And our dogs are happy to see us.

Vacation is great but being home is good.

WISH YOU WERE HERE

We're in Santa Barbara. We'll be back next week. I'm taking a moment to catch up. But not a long enough moment to tell you about our adventures.

That is for next week!

SUPPER FOR FIFTY

I just read this really great article. Lots of food bloggers and chefs respond to the question, "What would your Last Supper be?"

Ignoring the obvious issue of despair at leaving my friends and family - for me it would depend entirely on the season. If it were a beautiful and mild summer day like today I would want a Chesapeake Bay crab feed, with newspaper covered tables, nut crackers and picks and mallets everywhere, sweet corn on the cob dripping with salty butter, mountains of crabs coated with the thick paste of Old Bay seasoning and beer steam, garlic bread and salad with chunky blue cheese dressing (my aunt Rosemary's recipe) in big bowls and pitchers of lemonade and iced tea around a huge table with dozens of my beloved clan around me, talking and laughing and hammering and splashing crab juice all across cheap plastic bibs. For dessert fresh tree ripe summer peach pie with hand churned homemade vanilla bean ice cream. Perfection.

Winter, however, would be a whole different story...

And now I ask you. What would you want for a Last Meal?

POUR MOI? OUI, OUI!!

Things that I don't love about living in the mountains:

1. Driving forever and a day every time we need to do so many things.

2. Being home alone at night because we are so far away from emergency response and what if something happened? How long would it take the police or ambulance to get to us?

Hmmmmm.

Yup.

That's about it.

Things I love about living in the mountains:

1. Trees the size of small countries just outside my windows.

2. The big and small birds that live in those trees. And the animals that call my yard their home.

3. The air and the space and the privacy.

4. Meals on the deck outside feeling like we are sitting on top of the big beautiful world.

5. The neighbor who walked up to me at the mailbox to give me something. Fresh eggs. From her chickens.

The list is much longer than this, but today I am feeling so touched about the beautiful, soft brown, fresh eggs.