Wacky Wednesday

Orchestral Maneouvres in the Dark

OK, so I know I'm a little late, but raise your hand if you got up at 2:50am on August 28th to view the total lunar eclipse. We did. It was uber cool. We were camping at Mt. Rainier National Park and it was a luminous night. Twas the night before the day after, the stars were blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun, and not a creature was stirring, except us and the nice, unassuming man yon over who wore his kippah even in the wee hours of the morn when bladders tend to feel their most irreligious.

We stayed up from about 2:30 to 3am and watched das moon go from a three quarter moon to a full-on, red moon at night, campers delight. When the moon hits your eye, like a big red pizza pie, that's amore.

The next day we hiked to Snow Lake for a picnic lunch and I tried to stop time immemorially, but succeeded only in screwing up my watch.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Raise your hand if you are a better person for having learned all this. Yeah, I thought not.

Echoes from the Wells of Silence

Silence. That's all mine ears can heareth. Well, dull silence anyways. I can hear a traffic helicopter overhead, and the paving truck on the block behind, and the guinnea pig sucking his water tube, and my fingers on the keyboard. But all this pales in comparison to what I don't hear, which is whining, screaming, bickering, endless questions and, "Mom, Mom! Listen to this. On Animal Planet, there was this dog and yadda yadda yadda...."

My kids are chatter boxes. I have no idea where they get this trait from, she says with deadpan insincerity, an ever so slightly puzzled frown, and a quizzically-framed eyebrow, before returning to the serreptitious sipping of her coffee.

I cherish time alone. Always have. It's why I was home office-based for more than a decade. I'm not antisocial per se but more and more, I'm discovering a certain contentment and at-one-ment in being a-lone. In restless dreams I walked alone.

Minding my p's & q's - peace and quiet. The juxtaposition between my driving life and home life does not escape even me of the oblivious ilk. I prefer not to listen to a radio or TV when I'm by myself at home. In the vehicle though, I have my tunes cranked to the outer limits of decibel measurement. My kids have to mime and lip sync and bounce up and down in hopes a high bounce gets framed for posterity in the rear view mirror, in order to get my attention. This works for me ~ rarely for them.

Confessions of a Cab Driver
So it's back to school time and my Bridgestone four-seasons are in permatread mode. Our mornings now consist of two shifts - the 6:50am departure to get Prodigal Son to his metro transit stop a few blocks down the hill, where he now catches a quasi-express bus to his middle/high school.

And then round two at 7:30am with Darling Daughter, which involves driving past the neighborhood elementary mere blocks away, big fat sigh, and then the next one, before joining the morning commuters in our parts as we make our way to the old neighborhood and school she was most reluctant to part ways with. Yes, day two and this drive is already beginning to feel very old school.

But it's my karmic lot. I'm trying to embody a kind of Buddhist sense and sensibility about it all. Staying mindful and stoic despite feeling like I should be wearing a black patent, checkered-brim cap, and sporting a taxi meter on the dash. The title of this chapter of motherhood might well be called My Life in Circles, as I shift from school pick-up/drop-off to after-school mode with soccer, dance, scouts. And that's fine.

The one nice thing about minivan parenting is how sweet captivity is when it comes to moral pontificating. I save all important conversations, lectures and the like for the vehicle now - sex, drugs, bullying, homework, and even the obligatory, whatdayamean your new 41 year old Humanities teacher who professes to loves Bono more than anyone is cooler than your 41 year old Humanities grad mother, who truly wears the army boots when it comes to Bono adoration. Un.accept.able, do you hear me?

That's what happens when you let your kids loose into the world. They start riding metro buses with gypsies, tramps, thieves, meth dealers, bag ladies, high school mucus snorters/projectile saliva spitting champs, and other assorted pillars of society. And they start learning that the solar system is not parentalcentric after all, except insofar as said solar system relates to transportation.

When it comes to getting to and from Points Eh to Zed, I'm still the space ship superstar with the sinister grin and the Elton John shades ~ a kind of neo-new age Burnt Offerings' chaffeur driver, except my soundtrack is less macabre. Burnt Offerings? Does that not elicit a visceral reaction or what? Scariest all time moment in the history of film bar none, sayeth I- when Anthony James, the hearse driver, pulls up to the spooky shack and grins that horsetoothy, chilling grin of his, it's absasmurfly, positively, eerily Dickensonian.

They say to embrace that which you most fear. So here I am. I am the chauffeur, it becomes me. I rise from the slumbering dead each morn, beckoning to my children from the door of the van with my bony index finger to come hither, get yer assets into the van. It's time to go. Now. Vamos.

It's a thankless job. Thank God I have Bono. And my dancing, dashboard Jesus. And fresh-brewed Starbucks coffee. And all my teeth. And my reclaimed albeit bobbling head.

Not necessarily in that order.

Truth, Lies & YouTube Tape

When I'm not busy being entirely too preoccupied with how stupid people can be, I like to spend my spare time musing about the very human plight of ordinary Joes and Josephines. It's very Jerry Springerish, minus the popcorn-munching voyeurism. Small wonder that the original Rear Window is my second fave flick then. I'm continually amazed by the dramas and between-the-lines subtext that shape daily lives.

Hubby has come home with some doozies from work lately. One lovely co-worker is a slum landlady to not just one, but two deadbeat tenants in Chicago who, collectively, haven't paid rent in about a year, yet are audacious enough to work the court system and file grievances of faulty heating. They'll likely win and earn themselves heaps more time to squat.

On top of that long-distance nightmare, she is dealing with her own landlord-like issues in the form of a condo levvy to the tune of some $113,000. Picture spinning the game of Life dial and drawing the Life card, "Condo Board votes to spend $1.5 million in exterior capital improvements on building in order to compete with new luxury development project next door, prevent owners from being able to sell their condo anytime soon except at a loss, and nearly bankrupt owners in the process - pay Board $113,000." Can you imagine having to fork out several thousand dollars per month over the next year just to keep up with the Jonezes? Can you say class action suit? I like the way you say that. As usual, the only people who profit on all fronts are the lawyers.

And speaking of lawyers, another co-worker of hubs ~ a contractor who hails from Ohio ~ is embroiled in an unwanted menage-a-trois involving a prominent prosecuting attorney turned judge and the guy's geo-estranged girliepal who still lives out east, and has apparently been show & telling more than the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, if you catch my drift. Somehow the truth did come out though and now His not-so-Honorable So & So is trying to sweet talk dudely into coming back to talk things over rationally. Man to Man. Dudely is fearful for his life, on account of knowing a tad too much about the lawyer, his shady past dealings and his clients (many whom could easily ride the metro bus with the motley crew on my son's bus and fit in nicely).

But that's not all, that's not all, two babies drinking alcohol. While said lawyer (pronounced liar or lay-her, your pick) is busy singing soprano in the church choir with his doting wife and kids in the first pew, two-timing girlfriend is busy cleaning long distance, boyfriend dude out of house, home and bank. So not only does he have an achey, breaky heart to deal with, he's now got collection agencies at his door and maybe even Guido and the boys outside his rear window. On account of their connections to Dirty Harry the Judiciary, who can't help but dis his robe, despite a certain codependence with the voting public. Buddy in cubicle S (for scorned) has reputedly not slept a wink in over a week. Paranoia, self-destroyer, five dead in Ohio, and other kinky stories. News at 11.

Hubby confided this latest co-worker plight to me among the bed-clothes and through the hills in the land of counterpane last night. He attracts all manner of confessionals at work, it would seem. Must be his fatherly persona. Or the fact that they work in a cubicle world and the environment lends itself to hushed voices and confessional diatribes near the water cooler.

I also think he attracts such confessions if only because he is a bit, as in the tiniest, smidgeonyist, un petit peu of an analyzing worrywart, such that even though he thinks he's packed up his troubles in his ole kitbag and he's wearing his happy face, he's still carrying some excess baggage. Those pesky, minor worries are actually sitting there on the edge of his psyche, begging for a oneupmanship.

Whatever real and imagined financial & marital troubles he perceives for himself/us/the world dissipate like dust in the wind compared to the lives of these certain others. The old adage that a wife is both cheaper and easier certainly holds true here. If I act quick, I may even be able to get away with a Nordstrom spree this week without the usual hide it in the closet and pretend as though I've owned said expensive frock for years. This old thing?! - Gawd, it's sooo out of fashion, it's practically in again!

Everything is in again. It's as wacky as Wednesday. Those plastic jelly shoes I used to wear as accoutrement to my black robe, when I led upstanding, honourable judges into the court room back in the day? In like flint. And burgundy goucho pants. My daughter now struts her stuff in them. Some are even trimmed with tartan cuffs like Derek's so handsomely did, once upon a bygone time. Derek who? Why Derek the drummer from the Bay City Rollers, of course. I've moved beyond Wednesday, keep up with me - I'm now on S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y night. Ssss-ssss-ssss-Saturday night.

Ah yes, the good ole rock 'n roll, road show that is time, fashion and the random synapses of this blog. Now just to give you a small glimpse of my coronary evolution, (because lurking minds wanna know), I loved Derek in the years before Bono was up in arms about blimey Sundays. Derek and others (like Leif Garrett), were to us in the era of the mid-70s, what Troy of High School Musical fame has become to my daughter's bunch these days ~ the stuff of notebook covers, Tigerbeat sales and merchandiser dreams.

And where are they now? According to Wikipedia, the Smoking Gun, TSG and other altogether, reliable media sources, these 70s superstars are either downloading child porn and/or doing heroin. Lovely. That means they can ride the metro bus with my son, too.

Great big sigh. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...

Head Case

A funny thing happened to me on the way to moving into our new home. I lost my head.

It may still be in storage in the garage, mixed up in a box of miscellaneous apothecaries, gift decoration accessories and small hardware items from our kitchen junk drawer. Or perchance it popped off when I was packing up the bathroom cupboard and is now ensconced amongst vibrating toothbrushes, tampons, bath balms, lotions and sponges.

More than likely, however, it found kinship amongst our living and dining room ornaments and masks, and now sits precariously wedged in posed unblinking refinement in the mask box, all the while giving sidelong, squeamish glances at both the wooden brain picker utensil ornament from Fiji and my husband's cherished demon mask, which hails from Sri Lanka and enjoys only occasional exposure to human eyes from its permitted home on the back wall of our garage.

In any case, I have clearly misplaced my head, as evidenced by numerous recent, inexplicable decisions I have made in the past several weeks. Said mysterious choices are ranked below, in hierarchical order and direct accordance with their WTHWIT?! (what the hell was I thinking?!) significance.

Go, Dog, Go!
In the spirit of honest parenting, I will admit to having promised my children that we would consider getting a pet (of the non-cyber or igneous/obsidian variety) once we bought a house. We were still renting, after all. Now in the further spirit of dumb-ass moment admissions, I should also note that said statement was made with the teensiest bit of duplicity. At that moment in time, we had no plans to purchase a home. Hence therefore, it was an easy if rather empty promise.

What goes around comes around in karmic fashion or so sayeth grandparents who delight in such notions of parent/child payback. While we were busy praying for a healthy child with all fingers toes, limbs and sugar/spice faculties, they were fervently casting potions and spells to ensure we, their evil progeny of teen fame, spawned more of the same, in order that we, too, could enjoy the teenage fruits of our labors.

But OK, so here's the thing about promises to children. They may forget to make their bed and brush their teeth every day, despite having a good deed and chore chart posted on the fridge, being nagged sixteen times daily, and having to endure parents reading them nightly stories embedded with subliminal messages about good children who devote themselves to these and other altruistic daily regimes. Yes, it may be perfectly plausible that they could forget such important gestalt rituals, even though you might remind them that cleanliness and godliness are tight in finger-crossed fashion.

Heaven forbid, however, that you should murmur one lone, absent-minded and resigned someday promise, most often uttered in a state of duress after incessant and relentless badgering ("Mommy, Mommy, can we go to Disneyland someday? Please, please, please, please, please, pleaseplease pledeaseaeezzzzzzzzzzz!!!!!) ~ badgering, incidentally, that almost always transpires when one is engaged in an important long-distance business call or distracted by lost keys, a ringing cell phone and an empty wallet in the grocery store line-up.

Agreeing to such inconsequential, what-if, someday wishes is like giving your child a piece of treasure to lock in his or her memory chest. They.Never.Forget.These.Promises. Same child who has to be cattle-prodded each day to make his bed and brush his teeth because he somehow forgot these were his daily bread lots in life, will never forget the dog promise. Even after a frontal lobotomy.

Now speaking of forgetting and the need for psycho-surgery, I sometimes forget my brain has a different timeline than those of my pet-deprived offspring. When we move into our new home to me meant sometime in the decade thereafter, preferably near the latter part of said ten years, and most ideally in the penultimate days and months before both darling offspring move out on their own. How silly of me not to realize that my if/whens are actually taken in quite literal and immediate terms by my eager and tenacious children.

So no sooner did we pull up in the driveway, upon moving the last of the boxes, and what to my horrified ears should I hear but, now can we get a dog, Mom? You promissssssed!

In retrospect, I blame it all on Brenda. Had she not introduced me Webkinz, chances are good that my children wouldn't have taken to being pet owners with such enthusiasm. And chances are even better that they wouldn't have started harboring real pet attachments. And then none of this would have happened. It's her fault. Honest.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.
It doesn't help that we have moved into a neighborhood where all but three of us householders own a dog or cat. It literally rains cats and dogs here. So there's no getting away from the dog issue. Dogs barks at three minute intervals, sometimes in unison.

So, in quiet desperation, I resorted to my old retro parenting tricks. The bait and switch kind. You know the ones. Baby Johnny loved his noisy rattle and would bang and play with it ad nauseam until you finally got smart and switched the noisy toy out for a soft, stuffed one. He would then become transfixed with the new toy and forget about the old toy. There was a period of time that such manipulative parenting worked. I thought it would, could, should again. WTHWIT?!

I took them to the pet shop. The daily hound by the likes of my determined duo was beginning to take on the whine of the nauseating backyard beagles behind us.

Them: "We want a pet, Mom."
Me: "You have a pet, guys."
Them: "A goldfish isn't a pet. He's boring. All he does is swim around and eat. Bor...ing!"

So I took them to the pet store and introduced them to the concept of a plecostumus. This wasn't any boring old goldfish swimming around in a fishbowl. This fish is cool and looks gross - it sticks to the side of the tank and sucks algae. Bingo. Five dollars poorer and two kids happier, we headed home with Ted the plecostumus and to be safe, Rainbow, the red and blue beta fish in tow.

It worked like a charm. For all of about a week. And then the nagging started again.

Them: "Mom, can't we get a bunny/hamster/gerbil/chicken/dog/cat/....(insert miscellaneous animal name here - chances are good it was mentioned in the plea-bargain)?! We promise we'll take good care of it. We'll feed it, take it for walks, look after it, do all the work. We promise. Please please please please pleazzzze?!"

Me: "I dunno. We'll see."

Him (to Her): Yahoo! We'll see - that means Yes!!! Hurry, let's go wait in the van before she changes her mind again. Come on, Mom, are you coming?!"

After two aborted pet store visits, one in search of a hamster, the next on reconnaissance for a gerbil, we ultimately settled on a guinea pig. It seemed the best hybrid between his desire for a hamster and her hopes for a bunny. His name is Spud. We have owned him three days now and so far, Hubby and I seem to have done all the feeding. Promises, promises.

But perhaps it was inevitable, because Ted is now dead (found him upside down in the tank plant yesterday) and Phil our pugnacious goldfish is now an odd shade of blotched red and is clinging to life as I blog.


Circus McGurkus
It's really too bad that we haven't gotten around to unpacking all our boxes from the garage yet. Cuz if we had, then Friday night's scene could have been avoided entirely. I would have found my head in time, cancelled the festivities, and all would have been well in my world.

Sadly, this did not happen. Instead, four girls and one boy descended upon the Schmidt house for that ubiquitous world premiere occasion of High School Musical 2. On the offchance that you a) live in a cave; or b) do not have young children or c) do not have cable television and thus have not had the distinct pleasure of watching the Disney Channel, let me bring you up to speed on the pre-hype for this movie. Disney has been promoting the h,e, double toothpicks out of this movie for oh, I'm going to guess more than six months leading up to the premiere - August 17th, 2007. According to reports, Friday night's airing of HSM2 was the most watched telecast in history, with a reported 17.24 million viewers tuning in to watch.

Or suffer, as would be the case of the handful of us headless folks, who spent the better part of the movie fetching drink orders, picking up discarded napkins and remnants of chips and popcorn that were already quasi-embedded into the carpet, whilst deftly trying to thwart attempts by the more hyper of the bunch to dance and jump on the couches, sing the soundtrack off-key too loudly, fight over who got to sit where and with whom, and/or horde all of the available licorice, pillows and blankets for him or herself.

Of course, the real fun was having to phone three parents at 11:00 pm, in order to arrange pick-up of their freaked-out child. We managed to allay the concerns of one child such that she did still stay the night. She needed a telehug from mom and was fine once we surrounded her with Mickey, Minnie and untold amounts of other stuffed animals. The one boy bailed but he admitted, upon pick up, that this was his first sleepover so he was a bit unsure. Plus, he was used to staying up until 1am. Egads.

And so it was that after a breakfast of muffins, fruit, bacon and waffles, we were able to send the girls home to their parents with full bellies and last but not least, an obligatory treat bag filled with essential High School Musical paraphernalia.

I was relieved to see that according to television news reports thereafter, I am not the only headless mother in the Puget Sound area. Apparently there were countless HSM2 slumber parties going on. But I wonder how many parents dared brave the festivities sans alcohol? Apart from a few sips of a caffeinated soft drink, I actually survived the evening anesthetic-free. Remarkable really, considering that I didn't even dare brave childbirth without the epidural needle.

If I wasn't missing my head, I feel fairly certain I would have broken my martini virginity (yes I'm 41 and I'm a martini virgin). Gin of any kind, even lemon, would have smelled good Friday night. An entire pitcher might even have made the singing, dancing, bouncing, chip and popcorn crushing and licorice skarfing tolerable, or better yet, enjoyable. My one small thrill, was offering at strategic moments, to conduct disco dancing lessons. This threat would send my daughter into fits of horror (Oh Gawd, Mom! Please, don't embarrass me in front of my friends!!) and high-pitched screaming from the lot of them at the thought. Naturally, I always managed to get one John Travolta strut in before easing them off the torture rack. Parenthood should at least have some small pleasures.

But alas, I lost my head and thus, am prone to exhibiting apologetic tendencies of late. WTFWIT?! - which loosely translates as, "geegollygosh and oops, what ever was I was thinking? teehee."

I'd like to think the worst of my headless moments are over but I'm not so sure. Yesterday, my daughter somehow managed to talk me in to buying her teddy bear (who arrived at the mall sporting a teddy bear band-aid, cast and brace), a wheelchair. Uh huh. I'm serious. You can't make this stuff up.

So I have high hopes that with some diligent unpacking, I will soon locate my head and reattach it. In the meantime, I think I would do well to stay in, in case I start mistaking the backyard tree nests for those of the cuckoo variety and begin hearing my siren call approaching.

Whichever comes first. I'm gambling on the former. Only two more weeks until school. I'm scrawling giant X's on the calendar, as only a convict locked up for months that feel like years on end, can.

Godspeed me some sanity. Soon. Otherwise I'll have to go join the circus as a sideshow act.

Oops, silly me. I forgot. I already did join the circus. It just doesn't travel, is all.

Summertime and the Blogging Ain't Easy....

It must be summer because I have nothing to rant about. Even when there is so much to rant about - local traffic woes with a vital section of our local Interstate limited to a couple of lanes, the mortgage industry going to pot, and the frustrating reality that the sun has been playing hide and seek with us Pacific Northwesters all summer. It knows some dang good spots behind some major, honking cumulus clouds, too, it would seem.

But today, the sun sloths on its sky blue blanket, begging to be worshipped. The kids are happy, except when they're not, which is when they're yelling and screaming and arguing over who hates who more. And the bastard beagles behind us, who snort grass like it's in pretty green lines going out of style, are barking. Again. Still. Always. Forever.

So it's little surprise than it all this cacophony and disquiet of the season, I have nothing of consequence to blog about.

Like as though I ever did, so I don't know what the big deal is. Like I need some monumental bee to get stuck in my bonnet to step up on my soapbox and shout out to the world. So in the spirit of paradox, today I'm stepping up to the mic to yell hello to the universe and see if it murmurs back at me.

Nothing monumental. Not bent out of shape about the political, economic, religious or social state of internal or external affairs near or far. God knows, I could be....the world is going to hell in a handbasket - metaphor speak for earthly raison d'etre, I suppose - it just seems be permastuck on the downwards track of the roller coaster more so of late, is all.

Which is where I was yesterday, finally enjoying myself on the local roller coasters without the usual fear and looming death imaginings that accompany such joy rides for me post-motherhood. I took a friend's five year old daughter on her first big roller coaster rides - corkscrew turns, upside loops, the whole enchilada. And she was afraid, very afraid. I'm not very good at alleviating such rational fears so I did the only thing I knew to comfort her. I lied and told her the rides weren't really very scary at all. Which wasn't really a lie if you consider one's mindset post ride. Fears aren't scary anymore once you've confronted them. So of course, after the fact, she wanted to ride both roller coasters again. And again. I created a monster yesterday. But she's a cutie patootie with beautiful green eyes and long curlie eyelashes and a brave one at that.

So it was no biggie after all. Big schmig. Today I'm in a schmidt happens kinda mood. As in don't sweat the small, big or medium schtuff. I have no desire to do, strive, achieve but rather just to be today, with no conjunction junction station whistle stop or ultimate place towards which to follow the verbal auxiliary and irregularity of that which is the most slippery and passive of verbs.

"Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows by itself."
Zen Saying

Speaking of Zen wisdom, I just finished a book called The Zen Commandments. I highly recommend it. It's not Zen (the author is actually a Dzogchen student) and it's not even decidedly eastern in thought (Sluyter includes numerous quotes from Western traditions) but it does offer a universal fountain of wisdom in the simplest of language all reduced into one surprisingly slim volume. And he serves it with a golden tea cup, should you choose to drink from the fountain yourself, offers a twist of orange for those who like things sweet, and doctors it with more than a few drops of humor. Because while life itself is a serious game, playing at it needs not be.

To sum up that sentence, and his whole book and philosophy, for that matter, simply delete all words except the last one. The rest is clutter, fluff, schtuff, and schmidt to ponder and confound.

Which is perhaps why Shakespeare penned his most famous of rhetorical musings. It is, after all, the quintessential question and the answer is deceptively simple.

That said, at that very same place today you will find me. In the spirit of why do today what one can foreseeably put off until tomorrow, I'm guessing tomorrow or the day after that, etc., etc., is soon enough to get bent out of shape about the world and its ways.

Námas te.

Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary

On Marriage

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

(Kahlil Gibran)

# # # #

Happy 23 years together and 19 years married, hubba hubby. From Betsy the purple maverick to Ed the Turbo Boogie Van to Coleman the tent trailer - we've come a long way, baby.

Greener Pastures

Whoa Nelly.

Tardy Tart
Three weeks since my last post. There should be some kind of Hail Mary for negligent and reticent bloggers. Forgive me Blogspot, for I have sinned. It has been twenty days since my last blog. That's fine, my child. Say ten Hail Blogspot, full of Spaces and all will be well.


Summer is half over. And we have nothing to show for it save for a couple bright spots and two fun events. The bright spots are/were Holy Sun attending morning summer school this past month. It's being taught by an inspiring and amazingly fun Teacher Man dude. Case in point, said son actually looks forward to going each day. The other bright spot is our gorgeous new canopy bed suite. Photo, stage south. I'm a liking it. Alot. Bye bye 80s white melamine furniture. Hello new millennium.


The other pic is our rear window view. What you can't see through the forest of trees is that, to the right, there is a neighbor whose family room faces our bedroom. We don't yet have bedroom drapes or blinds. You should see the stealth, tactical moves I perform to get in and out of bed each morning and night, particularly upon remembering I ain't in the old gray house anymore.

Hair of the Dog
These same neighbors (immigrants as only transplants from California can be in these parts) have two beautiful yet annoyingly barky beagles. Their dogs are cute as can be, but trust me - multiple the whiny woo woo wooof woooof woof of a beagle ~ a sound that really can't be adequately replicated on a blog ~ times two, times 90 second durations at odd and inconvenient moments most days of the week, and trust me ~ you too would know with a certainly born of acute irritation that these dogs are getting really old really fast.

But not as old as the chihuahua two doors down. If those neighbors, a really nice couple actually, hadn't dropped by with a particularly lovely bottle of cabernet sauvignon as a proto-apologetic for quasi-ownership (they're rarely home) of a certain proto-canine, then I dunno. I really don't. I hate to think what might have happened to their tiny, pathetic excuse for a mutt. Let's just say it wouldn't be doing Taco Bell commercials anytime soon. It wouldn't be quiero'ing much except life perhaps. I may be speaking prematurely at any rate. I've been looking up cruel and unusual recipes on the Weber website, which can't be good.

I'm thinking I need to meet and befriend all these dogs, as we have Sarah, the 16 year old je ne ce quoi breed of doggie next door. We already love her. She takes up squatting rights in our front yard. We've already negotiated walking rights. Part-time walking of the neighbor's dog beats the high hell out of owning our own and it's way cheaper than FlexPetz. Thank God for the white living room carpet (ahemmmm.....what the heck were we thinkin'?!) - it will buy us a lot of time - hopefully two entire childhoods.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation
But I digress, which is blogspeak for I'm back blogging.

Anyhoo, our first of two fun outings was the auspicious occasion of the mid-July, Tragically Hip outdoor concert nearby, on what proved to be the hottest summer day thus far. It was a smoking 100 degrees (smoking by Seattle 2007 dismal summer weather standards) and we, along with 1,996 other ex-pat Canadians living in the area showed up with our blankets, picnic items and pent-up Hip lusts and fixations.

I can't believe in all my live long years, I had never been to a Hip concert. It was sad if bittersweet to be catching them on American soil. Bittersweet because it felt like we had teleported to Canada for a night, and sad because only a couple of thousand people showed up. One of....no make that Canada's the, all-time top bands and only a couple K riff raffers show up. Clearly a best-kept Canadian secret and little-known export. Although to be fair, I did hear Blow at High Dough piped in while grocery shopping at Slaveway last week. Case in point though, the very next night, the Hip were heading north to Vancouver of BC fame, to play to an audience of some 25,000 fans.

But it was still great if not the bestest, because we got to see Gord Downie in all his antic-filled glory cavorting across the stage and captivating all of us with his showmanship. I hoisted Holy Daughter up in the air and she waved her little Canada bear in the mosh pit - bless her heart for her tenacity because let me tell you, it was stink-y toil, grooving with the beer and sweat-marinated freaks. But Gord looked her way, smiled and waved and redemption was immediate for our concert pilgrimage.

So that was our one wee night-off from our July moving madness.

Beastly Blather
On a much sad note, I ended up having to cancel out of the SSBM first annual blogger getaway, held in Cannon Beach this year. I was looking forward to it more than any of the others ~ ie. Jeri, Tanya, Becca, Grace (of secret blog fame? - do tell, Grace!), and Christina, but alas, it was scheduled smack dab in the middle of our big move weekend wherein we had friends in from Vancouver to help load and haul. Moving places should go to the very top of the qualifier list for true friendship. I can't think of too many friends willing to help pack, move, schlep.

Anyways, I missed the getaway due to moving madness. Said madness has pretty much extended from early-July straight through to this past weekend, when we held our Schmidt Galore garage sale. Hardly anyone turned out, comparatively speaking to past garage sales we've had. But the kids had heaps of fun playing store. They fought over who was Manager, who was Stock Clerk, who got to sweep floors and the creme de la creme, who got to wear the money apron. We or should I say my son - who has clearly inherited the family sales gene - managed to peddle most of the big stuff and what little of value is left (a desk and a kid's toy bins rack) will get listed on Craigslist.

Cube Dudes & Boxes
Which leads me to the second fun event - the obligatory company picnic yesterday. It was held at a local farm that caters to large corporate events. Microsoft Saturday, Boeing Sunday. It was good in that I got to meet some of hubby's co-workers - not the ultra weird ones though. After two years of hearing stories - stories that make you go ewwwwwhhh!, suffice to say, my curiosity was on sabbatical at a cat killing farm. I was really hoping to meet this one, really eccentric...OK, eccentric doesn't cut it - psycho killer is a more apt description....dude of two cubicles-down the row fame. He makes the weirdos and wackos in Office Space look normal. And that's as diplomatic as I can word it.

But he was a no-show.

Other than that, our entire life this past month has been devoted to all things moving. No, we aren't even close to being settled, but thanks for asking. Our garage is packed with boxes, none of which are labelled and most of which are filled with 100% genuine and pure, authentic, unabashed crap. Hence the reason that they are out of sight and not wrecking my little feng shui fantasy of sparse furnishing and zero clutter. Things will come together once we get our proverbial shelving and storage schmidt together in various rooms throughout the house. Or feel audacious enough to ditch one box per week on garbage pick-up day over the course of the next year while our spouse isn't looking. Whichever comes first.

The good news through all this, however, is that we received word that our green card application is, once again, a go. Un.freaking.believable. Apparently the July application freeze by the feds turned into a fiasco (quelle supreeze), with untold numbers of pending lawsuits and the like. Again, duhhhh. So they decided to honour (honour as in honour among thieves) these pending July applications for a new August deadline. Hello light at the end of the tunnel.

So yet another $1,500 poorer and pages of documents lighter, we are now in the pending pile. Amongst other piles, I'm sure. There were fees for everything. Fees to grant us out-of-country travel permission, fees for me to get a work authorization this coming fall (happy happy joy joy), fees for fingerprinting, fees for seven million passport photos (by compare, methinks deranged astronaut chick looked far more civil and attractive in her police photo than the image I presented for posterity in my frightening passport photo posing. If we aren't granted green card status, it will all be on account of my picture, no doubt about it).

But Inshallah, or even if God doesn't will it, please someone else, do so!, it will all soon be done and Amens and Hallelujahs and God Bless Americas can finally be sung on this front. I'm already planning my Americanadian PermaRes Bash in anticipation of getting green cards in hand next year. You're all invited. Fingers crossed that it will be next year and not the year after or the one after that.

So that's my story, morning glory, and by golly, I'm stickin' to it. Like Venus to a flytrap. Or something like that.

Home, Home on the Range

So, we're in the new house - if you can call 30 years old new. It smells new with the fresh paint job it just had.

We've been moving things over in dribs and drabs, starting with the kids crap. We did a Clean Sweep with pristine daughter's room....emphasis on her pristine nature as diabolically opposed to her room's. We first thought of calling Haul Yer Junk to come in and suck out her toys and schtuff into the vortex of its pit. But ultimately, we ended up emptying out all her toys onto some tarps and blankets in our outdoor courtyard and separating them into the Junk, Donate, Keep and Sell piles.

I think we have an invisible critter in our courtyard though because at least a dozen times yesterday, I would mysteriously find that something that I had placed into the sell or donate pile would somehow end up back in Keep. Very strange. As were the stuffies I found my daughter sleeping with last night....all were eleventh hour salvages from the same outcast toy piles.

I tried to cut her some slack but not much because she is a Toys 'R Us outlet store waiting to happen. So it's not as though getting rid of a toy or two or five hundred is a hardship for her. And yet the tears flowed anyways. What if no one will love my (insert useless toy name here)? They will, honey, we'd assure her. They may even love it more....(sentence left dangling to infer that perhaps pay-it-forward child may only have 1o or less toys and may thus, be able to devote way more time, care and attention to the toy rediscovered in the Clean Sweep that had previously been buried in the bowels of her bedroom for God knows how many months).

The kids brought a couple of neighbor pals over (current, old place neighbors) to the new pad last night and they all sat in the hot tub. Which wasn't quite full. And I had no idea how to work it. But it was hot. And it was a tub. But it was not full nor bubbly. However, it seemed to appease their desires to sit in a hot tub. Mother of same neighbor children let the cat out of the bag last night though and I was none too impressed.

She called me over and commented how our 10-year old son had mentioned to her something about how peeing in our hot tub will cause the hot tub to shut down and necessitate a visit from the friendly, neighborhood repairman, an incident we all wish to avoid at all costs. So moral of the story? No peeing in the hot tub. That's what toilets are for.

But she thought perhaps he was serious (which he was - it was the story I was sticking to after all and I told it with my ultra-supremo straight face - the one that is de facto seriouso and which alleviates any/all doubts on matters from whether there is a supper policeman who shows up at the door to haul away children who don't finish their dinner, to what happens if you get caught picking your nose in public).

So she outs me publicly, by laughingly assuring her kids in front of mine that this was simply not true. And so I then had no choice but to chide and chastise her equally as publicly, by advising her that I didn't know what hot tub she had ever sat in, but this is how our particular hot tub works, said in my best nudge, nudge, wink, wink tone, and it literally will shut the motor down if it detects pee in the system. I then looked over at my son who was eagerly awaiting the verdict, and somehow managed to steadfastly hold his questioning gaze, thereby reassuring him that mom was not telling him a grand fib. This neighbor mom finally got it, but only sort of....because she then admitted that she prefers her kids to pee in the lake so she doesn't have to haul them out and run them to the washroom.

Too much information.

This is the same mom who thinks nothing of letting her snotty-nosed toddler run around with green boogers dangling from his nose. Which is fine if that sort of thing doesn't bother you. I happen to have a different tolerance threshold and tend to be the type that thinks nothing of wiping other kid's noses, if need be. And this is the same toddler who just projectile vomited all over our outdoor courtyard last week, scant millimeters away from an Afghani kilim carpet we are rather partial to. Thankfully, his mom had the good grace to come clean it up, hose it down and Lysol disinfect the heck out of it.

Anyways, long day short, we got through it but it was a painful process sorting through Polly Pocket pieces. Who the hell invented Polly Pocket? More to the point, I would like to meet a girl who keeps her Polly Pocket pieces together in one spot. Or clothes on her Barbies. Or wheels on her buses. Or feet on her Bratz dolls. Feetless Bratz dolls with minute waistlines, huge hips and monster eyes and lips freak me out.

The saga continues this week. Demolishing rooms...our closet, the kitchen and this office will be the next biggie events. We're making two-three loads a day over to the new haus and then these next two weekends, we'll do the big furniture loads. I won't be here the second weekend. I'll be in Oregon on the first annual SSBM blogger getaway with Becca, Tanya, Jeri, Christina (the Beast Mom herself), her sister, Grace, and her college roomie, Chris.

I didn't exactly plan our move to coincide with this Oregon coast girlie getaway but it would be a drag to have to cancel plans that have been almost a year in the making. So, I'm hoping we'll get the bulk of the move done, save for the bulky and heavy furniture, done prior to my exodus from the state. The only thing I'm good for when it comes to moving big furniture is either (a) getting in the way; or (b) making annoying suggestions on where said furniture should be placed in a room.

In between packing and moving, we're also furniture, appliance and window-blind shopping. We just bought a new Bosch washer and dryer. The appliance sales guy was a turd. Why do people, people who hate people...work in people-oriented industries? Gets me.
And our son starts summer school tomorrow. Which he's dreading, especially because he is now the proud dad of a Webkinz panda so he'll miss spending every waking moment with his new pet. Thanks, Brenda and Hollie, for fostering yet another cyber addiction for my children. Actually, it's perfectly good, safe, cyber fun. My daughter loves it. It's her first time really hanging on the computer and the games are perfectly geared to her age. She has a yorkshire terrier and a polar bear.

So that's my moving story and I'm sticking to it. I'll be counting back and forth trips for this, our first in-town move in a million years, just for fun. So I can write a book. How to Move in 83 Easy Trips.

USCIS (USELESS?)

Tap, tap, tap. Is this mic on?

I knew not to get excited. And yet I did anyways.

It's akin to being pregnant and wanting to tell the world but knowing I can't because I stand great risk of losing the baby (so says the woman who was preggo 5 times yet only has 2 hijos).

Anyhoo, we got kicked in the gut today.

The Bad
No sooner did I take our Canadian flag and windsock down from the Canada Day celebrations in order to make room for all the nearby American flags that are beginning to flap happily in the wind, than we receive this news.

In case you don't speak government bullschmidt, it says they (I won't even honour "them" with a name ~ they know who they are) will be reneging on their green card fulfillment requirements.

Guess who was in that July pile of applications? Guess who just forked out $1,000 American buckeroos to do medicals and shots, etc., etc. Guess who is extremely peevola'd? Yeah. Times two.

In fact I'm so pissed off that I think I'm going to lie low today because if I dare head out and spot even so much as one Ford Ranger truck with a gunrack and a Bush/Cheney sticker, I can't even fathom what that might do to me. I'm ovulating too, so I'm also more than a little hormonal and altogether unstable. It wouldn't be good, she says in wide-eyed rage, shaking her head perhaps a little too fervently.

They're claiming the backlog will only be until October but the more I Google this whole immigration deal, the more I'm sensing that we're being fed a pile of schmidt. All promise, no delivery. Look at the passport fiasco. I'm hearing it's taking months for some people to get their passports. Well, duh, Joe and Jane Fed Immigration Directors....like you didn't think to advise your bosses to think that one through three chess moves ahead before you (collectively) started locking up your borders with an electric fence and pushing for mandatory passports between borders within short order?

From the very start last year, we've been playing a green light, red light game and it sux hugely. Don't even get me started on the immigration ironies.

Oops, too late. On account of this being my soapbox.

But....and here's my giant disclaimer. I'll post it in red. If, if, if, you see immigration law restrictions as a black/white issue (please don't pardon the pun, it's deliberate), then do yourself a favour (Canadian spelling - I can't even be bothered with the nicety of Americanizing it today). Don't read on. Really, don't. But, but, but, should you perhaps view this issue as one that has many voices, sides, polemics, tribes, facets and dimensions, then read on.

Here's but one lone view.

That of a Connie and Curtis Canuck. What's our demographic, you ask?

The Boring
Well, let's see. I'd say we're the average Western Canadian immigrant. Professional couple, formerly of DINK persuasion until two kids and a subsequent move due south knocked us firmly into the two-kids, one-income category. We drink freshly ground coffee, own a tent trailer, pay cash for most purchases, permit our kids to watch Cartoon Network, and drive a Honda Odyssey and Mazda 626 respectively. Need I say more.

Are we harmful to American society? This blog might smell mildly of dangerous thought, if the tradewinds as they did today, blow every so slightly to the left, but for the most part, we are the contrary. Read that how you may.

In fact, we are the technicolour hue you see when you stare at the stars and stripes on the flag too long after too many Budweiser beers at a hot and humid 4th of July picnic. We are the breath of fresh, quasi-unpolluted, Canadian mountain air that arrives in the form of a U-Haul truck to your friendly, local neighborhood. We come in peace, we sprinkle our sentences with eh to appear harmless and somewhat no-mindish, we brandish hockey sticks in hopes that we can have you a game of street hockey and kick your butt, we brush debris off our driveway with a curling broom ('cuz heh, it works), and we've been known to smuggle Okanagan citrus fruit and pork sausage across the border for personal consumption but will vehemently deny this if questioned by the authorities.

My husband, Monsieur Canuck, who speaks not a whit of French owing to his Western roots and all, is one of only a handful of skilled, non-American workers (indeed) on his team who can accurately identify all the parts of a certain impressive and sophisticated, advanced-tech manufacturing product. If I were to name said product, you would be afraid, very afraid. Given the kind of work they're doing and the ramifications such lack of product knowledge might have on the end-user consumer, I won't go there.

Suffice to say that until he had arranged a tour of a local repair facility to view said product, many/most of his young and green counterparts had never even seen the inside bowels of this nameless thing. Which one might arguably think would be impossible, but I have discovered what it means to live in the land of opportunity. It means anything is possible, even the impossible. Anyways granted, he has twenty years experience in his field, but so, too, do some of these full-time, lifetime employees.

But, he's a contractor and more to the point, a foreigner. Thus, despite his role as mentor, new employee trainer, project manager of sorts, task innovator/initiator, senior (in more ways than one if his birth certificate is any indication) and seasoned worker on the beat, and last but not least, paid-overtime contractor who is expected to come in and work circles around the employees (who punch clocks and take time off to deal with hangnails or look outside and see it's raining and decide not to come into work that day), he is still not permitted access to certain company documents and/or information that he needs in order to do his job for this very American company that is trying desperately to one-up it's closest (European) competitor.

And what will I have to offer? Ahem. Not a whole darn lot, admittedly. Just a few sales and marketing smarts, the odd, outside the box idea and I do mean odd in its truest sense, an occasional flash of blouse cleavage on days I'm feeling bodacious, a bi-monthly Tully's coffee splurge for my co-workers on days when I'm feeling magnanimous, and most importantly, a nose-to-the-grindstone tourism industry work ethic each and every day (translation: will work damn hard for next to nothing). Spoken like a true immigrant, oui/si?

Now I totally get and love patriotism and I even get immigration fears to a narrow degree, emphasis on narrow though because that is the view I'm blogging about here, but here's the thing.

The Ugly
While some Peter and Penelope Patriots are out there waving their flag singing Up with America, Down with the Rest of You (left unsaid: who have the audacity to come in here trying to steal our jobs, homes, way of life, etc.), they remain oblivious to a few key inconvenient truths. Namely:

a) America was founded on a little thing called immigration. Lest we forget.

b) In fact, stealing homes, lands and livelihoods is the most a priori American instinct there is. If you don't believe me, quiz an American Indian. They'll confirm this most biological and historical of American realities.

c) Skilled and professionals workers from other nations lend 'other' perspectives, worldviews and dare I say, efficiencies that are a refreshing addition to the American way. There is, after all, more than one way to cook November turkeys. Just ask those of us who cook them in October or better yet, a vegetarian from Turkey who can drink coffee with the best of us, whilst effortlessly citing "A Sad State of Freedom" and other brilliant Turkish poems. In English with a slight American if distant Baywatchy accent, to boot.

d) How many Americans does it take to design a lightbulb? No joke, I'm serious. I would argue it takes a Canadian, some Brits and a handful of other zealous and ingenious Europeans to simultaneous invent and patent it; and yes, an American to then carpe the darn diem and the glory in true bootstrap American fashion. My point is hardly an illuminating one. Quite simply put, it takes a globe to trade in today's economy.

Thus, it behooves any nation playing in the global arena to attract the best of the best of international workerbees because the grim reality, and I hate to sound apocalyptic here because then I'd be right (teehee - my lame attempt at a religio/political joke), is that there is going to be a skilled labor shortage in the high tech fields. Europe is already facing it. So is America but few are willing to admit that.

I ayn't no roket sighantest but if I was, I would venture a guess that current universities and college enrollments are living proof of the impending shortage. So is the contrived benchmarking for No Child Left Behind. And shows like Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? (I don't even want to know where those contestants work - that's just way too much information). And job boards such as that of Microsoft, which boast hundreds upon hundreds of unfilled positions. Too many jobs, not enough skilled labor. Just as it takes a village to raise a child, it takes an entire world to fuel a global economy.

e) They, Peter and Penelope the fearful, play right into the hands of terrorists and a few unnamed politicians, the ultimate prophets of fear and hate. In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, the world stood in awe, watching as New Yorkers showed us what it meant to be heroic and humanitarian. Of these tender years thereafter though, history may not tell as kind and compassionate a tale. If provoked, it might whisper of tribalism; the very sort of tribalism that spawned the likes of Al Quaida-think. America and Americans collectively are at a pivotal crossroads in history methinks. And it's an exciting one if viewed as an opportunity instead of a threat. If America is brave enough (and I unequovically believe it is) to open the blinds and extend to its friends, Romans, and countrymen alike, the same kind of compassion, hope and generosity of spirit it displayed in the moments, hours and days after the Trade Center and New Orleans disasters, imagine how the ethos might change. Perhaps then certain unnamed illegal immigrants might not be stealing from Arnold to pay George so Dick can profit.

The system feeds a vicious cycle by it's very duplicitous nature. It fairly begs for the little guy to stick it to the man.

Having said all this, I'm all for immigration reform. They can start with reforming the hold-up on our green cards, for one. (Kidding but not). Breath in, breath out, recite serenity prayer. Repeat process.

I don't have any more answers that the next guy or gal. Just my never-ending naive idealism and endless hope for a better future for everyone caught in the border barbed wire.

The Bold
To play devil's advocate a minute though, I admit that many cite the other extreme of immigration woes. The southern one. The unskilled workers who sneak into the country under the hood of a truck. Now granted, there are all sorts of correlations one can draw. Higher illegal immigration, higher crime rates is but one. But theoretically, it's become a cheaper form of outsourcing for way too many companies. Wal-Mart no longer needs to operate sweat shops in Mexico and Central America. They've got a whole population of people willing to sweat for them in their own backyard.

The Brave
Who do we think is getting paid under the table to build houses or work in the hospitality industry or accept minimum wage at par or below? Certainly not the construction company owner or Ma and Pa Motel owner who reap the profits and have figured out exactly which disgruntled employees dare not have the audacity, not to mention legal legs to sue.

What gets me are the fear-mongering many who bemoan the welfare burden. It reminds me of a song lyric I once heard - 'sometimes when it's quiet, you can hear the aristocracy whine.'

The Bloat
Immigration stories are the greatest of six o'clock news upsets, are they not? It's hard to digest one's prime rib dinner accompanied by grilled asparagus and seasoned potatoes and the obligatory glass of vintner's reserve pinot noir when one must first have to get up and lock the doors, shelter the young and innocent and steel the eyes and ears from such unwanted intruders and invaders. Who are, incidentally, the very same immigrants slaughtering the cows and planting the potatoes and picking the grapes and growing the asparagus; but this lesser and subsequent story gets left out of that 30-second soundbite.

My observation, and take it with the grain of salt it's worth in a food stamp line, is that the term welfare is largely oxymoronic in this great nation. So might claim the disabled gent who didn't have the dubious privilege of losing his limbs at war. Or the widower with a mortgage to pay, three or four mouths to feed, a lousy job, no insurance and a retro-country music record on perma-skip. Or the young couple who must choose between high-cost daycare and zero revenue stay-at-home parenting options for their three month old infant. Like that should even be a choice-based proposition in a global superpower nation like the US. And yet it is.

The correlations between being pregnant with child and this blog are numerous. This is a very pregnant blog, stretching at the seams with bloat and scars that will not soon fade after its birth or should I say narrowly-missed abortion.

Yes, this blog post is very much like a miscarriage, whose delivery must be suffered in the privacy of one's home or as is the case with stillbirth, the bowels of the hospital basement, far away from the excitement and chatter of happy new families, oblivious to the wondrous miracle born unto them that day, even as others below them, beneath them, suffer.

I speak as the voice of stillbirth experience. And I feel a pathos and sadness not altogether unlike the days following our daughter's loss 12 years ago. I remember that everywhere I turned in the days, weeks and months following, I was constantly bombarded with young moms and beautiful bouncing babies. It was like an extreme form of torture.

I felt it acutely again the other night, as I sat watching a recorded episode of Oprah, in all her insensitive glory, poo-pooing the woman who suffered the loss of her newborn one moment, and then in the next, glorifying all the mothers of the world. Perhaps only one who has lost a child in such a manner would pick up on the subtlety of that full frontal insensitivity, but I felt it, nonetheless.

The Gloat
And I suffer it in lesser form again today. Just days ago, I stood up at Safeco Field, proudly belting out Oh Canada and then immediately switching to an equally heartfelt, "O say does that star spangled banner yet wave, o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" I felt very Americanadian and dually patriotric, singing both anthems and rejoicing in my stars, stripes and maple leaf hybridity. Unbeknownst to me, the revised July immigration bulletin was already being drafted for release today.


The Lament
Today, as I see flags fluttering everywhere and 4th of July paraphernalia in every grocery, convenience and department store, I cannot help but feel the same kind of affront to the senses that I felt post-stillbirth delivery. Everywhere a reminder of liberty gained and liberty lost. It's like feeling the sting of being slapped in the face and for no good reason except that I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. I cannot sufficiently describe this discomfort. I can only lament that it does not feel good.

I'm back to that uneasy place of wanting to take my Canuck toys and go home. She mumbles on the penultimate eve of signing escrow documents, scarce days away from taking possession of a home here.

The Good
The good news? We can now travel to Canada this summer, as we are still a few months away from final filing and thus, the holding pen stage of our green card paperwork. Thank phricking God for small pleasures in the midst of big upsets.

OK, I'll shut up now.