Gravitational Pulls

Summer has come and past,
The innocent can never last,
Wake me up when September ends.
Billy Joe Armstrong, GREEN DAY

September proved to be a stupidly busy month.

And as usual, it wasn't my schedule that made it so. One of these days, I vow, I really am going to get a life of my own. I had one once. It was nice.

Should they ever consider reviving that old game show, This is Your Life, I just know with absolute certainty that I would not make a good contestant. They would run the reel of my current life, but I would be too busy either trying to perfect the facial expression from The Scream for TiVo replay effect, or too hellbent on finessing my upstream backstroke on dat big ole river, 'da Nile, to acknowledge the biographical nod to moi.

I am so not embracing that this current lot, which looks suspiciously like a parkade, is my life. You see, I truly suck at this stay-at-home-mom schtick. I suspect that's why I have never identified myself with the SAHM crowd, with the noted exception of the multi-tasking bloggers, who, for the most part, don't really appear to either.

Anthropologically speaking, I really do admire mainstream stay-at-home moms ~ if I may be so bold as to lump a bunch of colours into one pile of laundry without fear of risking a tie-dye mess. They (the happy, happy, joy, joy SAHMs) are an amazing species of animal. These moms are eternally grateful and for the most part, utterly content with their maternal identity. By and large, they adore staying home with the kids, cooking meals, doing laundry, working on their crafts, and arranging playdates with other moms. They feel momentary existential angst like all the rest of us (although some of us feel it chronically), but they wouldn't have it any other way.

I on the other hand, harbour unrealistic fantasies about getting headhunted by Universal Jobshop Inc., for the exalted and most coveted position of Queen of the Universe. Said position would naturally pay a stupidly, ridiculous salary, thus, affording us the luxury of being able to hire a whiz bang live-in nanny who would then cook, clean, run errands and most importantly, run the kids all over hell's half acre after school, all the while allowing me to set about running the universe in royal fashion.

If there was a mommy confessional, I admit that I would need to repent for this unbridled absentee parenting ambition of mine first.

In the larger scheme of parental confessions, I suppose this is a rather innocuous admission. After all, I have never been majorly tempted to cut a deal with dingos to steal my babies. (Thank God for that big body of water called the Pacific that separated me from such temptations). And here's another shocker. I vacationed with hubby and the kids last winter at a luxe Mexican resort and we (the parental units) never once considered leaving the kids in the room alone. The same considerations cannot be said of the kids, however, who fairly begged us to do so.

But, OK so back in the day, I'll admit....I did kinda sorta used to put my kids on remote control at the playground next door while I toiled away in my office loft with work or school; keeping only one lazy eye fixed on them through the upstairs window. And I do admit to having drank the odd glass of wine or Baja Tango in my coffee cup with another neighborhood mom at the same playground, whilst summarily ignoring my/our respective children who played, fought and bickered during those penultimate minutes after school leading up to witching hour. It was practical, happy parenting at its best and I just know Christie Mellor would have been so proud of me. This happened a time or two dozen but we reveled in knowing that we were very chic alor suburban moms, thanks to the advent of Desperate Housewives circa 2005. We were somewhere between George Thorogood first drink temptations and three martini desperation.

Anyways, enough about me and my so-called life that I used to have. September was not about me, except insofar as it had me running with scissors. Seriously, I had scissors in the car at one point. Don't ask.

On one memorable afternoon/evening, I ran between a Brownie meeting, two conflicting soccer practices, an Irish dance class, and a boy scout meeting. Welcome to my nightmare, whispered Alice the Coop'ed up Housewife. It was a cb radio moment. Breaker, breaker 1-9, WTF, over.

The kids, mind you, are having the time of their lives.

Holy Son thrives on being busy. He's positively Pavlovian when it comes to going from one activity to the next. Bring it on, bring it on, might well be his mantra. If ever there was an image that defined the quintessential spirit of my son, it would be that retro Norman Rockwell pic of the kid hanging out of the family car window in abject excitement, waiting with bated nacho cheese breath for the next big adventure on the roadtrip of life.

Holy Daughter is taking it all in stride too. Maybe too much. She has become a quick change artiste extradordinaire. She can strip from soccer gear to Irish dance wear in the course of six blocks.

I now understand that checkbox on the school district registration form that asks applicants to identify if they live in a house, in a car or on the street. No schmidt, schmerlock, it really says that. When I first saw it, I had no context whatsoever for understanding how such home displacement could possibly be so in this high falutin' bubble of suburbia we happen to find ourselves residing in. But I get it now. We actually do live in the car. Next time I have to fill out that form, I will check that box: (c) We live in a minivan.

It's quite true. Just ask Holy Hubby. He mumbles and grumbles no less than 3 times a month when faced with the daunting task of unloading the plethora of coats, clothes, shoes, food, sports gear, books, blankets, toys and garbage that tend to take up semi-permanent residence in our vehicle.

September was not so much about running around, however, as it was about adjusting to two hours a night of homework, now that Holy Son is a middle schooler. He has done admirably, considering he never used to get assigned homework as a 5th grader - apparently they were smart enough, and didn't need any. Or my own personal theory? His teacher was too old and lazy to assign anything that might require additional marking.

So really, it's a good thing we don't have a life because every free evening moment (apart from nit-picking my kid's hair - it's my new OCD pasttime - the lice are long gone but I can't seem to stop - look for me soon on Maury Povich)...anyhoo, every spare minute is now consumed with ensuring he's completed his next day assignments and projects. If this keeps up, I will soon be sporting a bumper sticker that says, "I am an Honor Student at my Son's School." As much as I once vowed never to do that, I'm re-thinking my logic. Especially if I can survive 7 years of this 7 core subject curriculum times two. Think how smart a mother I'll become.

He's managed to stay on top of everything plus maintain about a 3.5 GPA thus far, with the noted exception of his cello practice. He's supposed to be playing the cello at home two hours a week but we haven't been able to tolerate err, I mean, assist him with squeezing regular practice time in as of yet. I have also managed to come up with a good effort bribe whenever he properly discerns his their/there homophones. We keep the Easy button handy so he can hit it each time he gets it right or done (not quite a bell but close enough) and I've also begun teaching him how to polka so that we can do a celebratory dance when the mood strikes him to have a kinesthetic battery re-charge. Once a Puke (Polish/Ukrainian), always a Puke. So depending on the night, the neighbors are often afforded a not-so-rare glimpse of our mother/son polka. Who needs scissors when you can bellow out Weird Al music on demand, I always say.

He loves the school and feels über comfortable there ~ and after visiting it on curriculum night recently, I have to admit, we're pretty tickled with it, too. The kids are doing 7th grade humanities and will maintain advanced level coursework from here on in (not to be visually confused with heroin - ours is a drug-free school district, dontcha know), because they only take seven core subjects (humanities, int'l. studies, music, phys ed, math, science and German or French) and no options, so thus, are able to fast track things a bit.

They (the institutional types) continually remind us how fortunate these kids are to have won the lottery so to speak (which is literally how they are placed there), and to be earning an education at a school that looks and acts like a small private school (approx 70 students per grade from Grades 6-12) and perhaps more importantly, ranks within the top 99.95% of all public high schools, based on their impressive ranking on the Newsweek list of who's who schools. It's PTA ideology at it's best, because of course, the prouder and more tickled we are, the more dollars we'll contribute. Or so they hope.

I can see why Holy Son seems to have grown up so fast in the past month. To be a sixth grader strolling the halls with high schoolers who will actually talk to you is pretty cool stuff. To be a relatively tall (5', 2") bottle blonde and handsome 10 year old who gets fawned over by a bevvy of girls is even cooler yet. And to be a sixth grader in possession of his very own, brand-new Razr phone with a neon green silicone cell cover....well, that's pricelessly cool.

Yes, we finally made good on our summer school threat/promise/bribe and got him his cell phone yesterday. He thinks, make that knows he's totally stylin' now. We've been lending him Holy Hub's phone the past month and have found it to be an essential mode of communication after school, because I never know from day to day whether I'll be picking him up or letting him ride the bus home. He knows how to work the phone way better than I do. I just learned how to use speed dial on my phone yesterday. I'm such a dinosaur.

But at least I'm an 80's dinosaur. I'm still exhuberantly happy about this pop culture nod to the 80s lately. I wish we could freeze time. I'm so grooving on the headband hair, black tights & leggings, high boots and long tunic fashion look, and my new near black hair. I was accused of looking goth this morning. Tee hee.

And I wear my new houndstoothy/plaid designer Ukrainian boots everywhere now, much to the complete horror of my family, who curiously, seldom walk with me or even acknowledge my presence anymore when we're in a store. I'm like this strange lady who they only pretend to know for a moment at the checkstand, and only then because it's financially prudent for them to do so.

Holy Hub tolerates the look but only because I know he's secretly plotting a way to begin wearing Hush Puppies again. You see, for 20 years, his boxed pair of brown suede Hush Puppies in the closet were a source of great amusement for me. They were in mint condition but, of course, horribly geeky. He would always threaten to wear them. Meanwhile I was busy planting cheese in the closet, praying for a mice infestation. Alas, they somehow accidentally, on purpose got misplaced in a move. And then they ended up coming back in fashion and they're now worth a fortune, more's the pity, or so I noticed the last time I strolled through Nordie's shoe department.

I'm also digging that the music continues to stay in retro mode these days, too. It kills me. Depeche Mode is all the rage again, as is every 80s post-punk band that still has living members. My current fave-ola is Shiny Toy Guns. The kids and I crank that all the time and it makes feel like I am young again. The best thing about Sunday mornings here in Seattle, besides sleeping in, is Ressurection Flashback Sunday. I love hearing the underground bands, like Joy Division, who were mein zeitgeist (not to mention a major impetus for my wasted, sonic youth), and my secret listening refuge while my friends were busy banging heads to Judas Priest. Joy Division only ever hit the alt-rock university stations but you may or may not recognize them as New Order, minus Ian Curtis. Many bands owe giant nods to Joy Division, most notably U2, who continue to pay tribute to them in concert three decades later.

Which is why it's such a shame (and no surprise) that I'm deaf right now. My right ear has completely plugged up and I'm thinking I might need to host an ear candling home party. Wouldn't that be wick? :)

OK so poetic waxing aside, I do sort of wish a friend, Roman or countryman would lend me their ear - minus hair sticking out of it though - as I've been feeling rather like Mrs. Potatohead with only one auditory orifice. I didn't notice how bad it was until I went to the Seahawks/Bengals game a couple of weeks ago and ended up having to scam earplugs from the firstaid station adjacent to our seats. Holy loud stadium, batman - no wonder Qwest Field has been rated the loudest in the NFL. My ears were ringing so bad from all the yelling that I wasn't sure I'd even be able to stick it out the whole game. Good thing we did though because the Hawks ended up pulling through in the bitter end.

Perhaps that's why God gave us two ears. Spending $250 to go see a doctor and get it flushed out seems, well, a huge waste of money. So I'm off to the drug store to get an earwax kit. This is the same drug store that has been tracking my lice shampoo purchases so I may have to wear my boots, some shades, my son's purple scout kerchief over my goth hair, and an overcoat. Thanks to Hollie, we're trying the tea tree oil route with shampooing. So far so good, but I could still swear I'm finding nits in the kid's hair.

But at least it's so cold around here now that the giant spiders have disappeared. And I haven't seen Mr. Mole or the yappy beagles for awhile. The only critter hanging around is Spud, our guinea pig, who is now the size of a large swine, most likely on account of the fact that he is being fed the daily equivalent of Canada's annual agricultural exports to China. He is only slightly more Pavlovian than Holy Son, in that when the fridge door opens, Spud will immediately let out a series of high-pitched squeals and squeaks until we finally relent and feed him some produce scraps.

In other news, the next phase of our immigration fun is upon us. We are scheduled to go have our green card pictures taken and get fingerprinted in a couple of weeks. I think it would be so cool to draw an outline of a maple leaf on my index finger. Just to see the look on fingerprint dude's face. Cheap thrills.

And since they've already cashed out cheques, I'm guessing that my work permit authorization will be just around the corner as well. Which means I need to get off my fanny and find a job so we can keep up with all the other DITKies. A four or five hour a day schtick that is super close to home, pays amazingly well, provides awesome health benefits, permits me summers off, has a lenient footwear policy, and allows me to not even have to think about the job in the off hours. Hmmm, does such a job exist? If so, I'm going to put the beagles on the beat to sniff it out.

I also need to sniff out some birthday party ideas. I have two weeks to come up with a theme and I'm stuck. We were thinking of doing a space lounge idea for Holy Daughter and I've always wanted to do an Alice in Wonderland Mad Hatter Tea Party slash unbirthday affair, and have everyone exchange silly gifts. And I thought of doing a fall carnival but that would feel way too much like work. So I dunno. I may combine elements of both and have a Wild & Crazy 8s bash. I'll drink blueberry tea, wear my earplugs and my rubber boots and perchance I'll even play some polka tunes and let Holy Son practice the cello.

Like I said, I need a life.

Hi! My Name Is...

*Thanks to KC for this steal-worthy meme below*

Hi, my name is...

How many times have you ever worn one of those tacky namebadge labels to a corporate function? And smiled to yourself? As though contained in those x-amount of letters that when formed together, breathe life to your named identity, one might possibly find that quintessential clue into your uniqueness of being. It's laughable and yet not. Just as you are what you eat (or at least when it comes to Hostess Twinkies), you are what you're named. In so very many ways.

My name is ancient Germanic. It hints that Denmark might be my homeland but those who read Hebrew recognize my judiciary archetype. Arabs believe I am like a black pearl, which makes me a rather wicked wench who is "nigh uncatchable" and tamed only by the likes of Captain Jack, but those who love me see me as the light of day. Because of its etymological ambiguity, my name has always remained as mysterious to me as my roots, my origins. My name is phonically simple yet surprisingly tricky for people to spell, pronounce or remember. It has always set me apart and served as a constant reminder to me that I am unique and different ~ an uncommon breed apart.

I was named after my birth mother. I didn't know this until we met a decade ago. Now, if we are in a room together and someone calls our name, we both look. It's rather annoying because then I am reminded that perhaps I am not that unique and different after all. The one saving Grace in such circumstances is she permits me to use her wine glass with our collective name etched on it.

My name was popularized on a Saturday Night Gilda Radner skit. This then became my nickname and if truth be known, I felt quite en vogue, if only for a short time. My name also fits nicely into the Name Game ditty and conveniently happens to rhyme with one of my fave fruits. This, too, is a popular nickname of mine. My name bears a distant familial resemblance to my husband's ex-girlfriend's name. He only mistakenly called me by her name once. Thankfully it was a harmless moment but if looks could maime, the glare I cast him that day might well have done him in.

My name corresponds to the number 3, which highlights the characteristics of expression, verbalization, socialization, the arts, and the joy of living. The expression or destiny for those with my name is one that includes words along a variety of lines that may include writing, speaking, singing, acting, teaching or composing. My name/numbers also tell me I have the destiny to sell myself or sell just about any product that comes along, and at one time, that happened to include a skanky, old, unrenovated hotel with cigarette burned carpets but commanding views of Edmonton's impressive river valley. I am imaginative in my presentation, and I have at least some creative talent for the the arts, although these are more likely to be latent. I am an optimistic person who seems ever enthusiastic about life and living. I am friendly, loving and social, and people like me, or so the numbers tell me, because I am supposedly charming and a good conversationalist. My ability to communicate may often inspire others. It is reputedly my role in life to inspire and motivate; to raise the spirits of those around me.

My soul urge number for my name relates to the abstract, the spiritual, and utopian dreams such as my dream of the perfect world. I am motivated toward idealistic concepts, and the sharing of my ideas and concepts with humanity. This sharing is not of giving to the world in a material or a practical sense, but rather as one who desires to help mankind with a more abstract commodity such as religion, spiritualism, occult studies, or even psychic abilities. My inner strength and devotion to my beliefs is extremely strong. I lean towards higher, more abstract forms of thought. I am also too sensitive, and at times, either overly emotional or emotionally repressed. I'm not a very practical person but I delude myself into believing I am. As a result, I tend to be rather inflexible.

I dream of being a leader and one who is in charge, even if this isn't always congruent with my life circumstances. I definitely want to be known and remembered for my courage, daring, and original ideas. I seek unconquered heights. People often get a first impression that I am very aggressive and sure of myself. This reminds me that I clearly haven't revealed enough of myself to those erroneous few who have formed this impression.

And even though Alanis cried it first, I think she really did speak for me when she said I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint and I really do not feel ashamed that these all sound like me, a name I call myself. I have yet to find a collection of words for my About Schmidt descriptor that better describes the mishmash that is me. What can I say? Iyamwhatiyam and that's all that I am, or thus spoke Popeye in his spinach-induced euphoria.

Hi. For the purposes of this blog and this space called cyber, my name shall remain Anonymous but somewhat less a Mystery, I trust ~ much like the very ground of life itself. So as always, you can just call me Holy. It's easier to say and when you add my last name to the mix, it kinda has a ring to it, especially when pondering all that is cosmic, kismet and inane in this world.

Zoo Station

This is such a nice town. Everyone is so friendly and welcoming.

Everywhere we turn, there is someone new that stops by wanting to say hi and welcome to the neighborhood.

It started with the birds. Singing and chirping to us as we unpacked boxes. Then the racoon colony in the back 40 wilderness came - mom and three or four racoonlets. And without even asking if they could, they cut through our yard, through to the front where they then cut over to buddy's house, climbed up his steep, front cement steps and then squeezed into a hole the size of a peanut to God knows where. Rumor has it they love his koi pond and have been known to steal a fish or two dozen a time or two.

And then there were the lovely beagles behind us, of course. They were pretty yappy for the longest time, but ever since a certain anonymous noise complaint showed up in their owner's mailbox, I've noticed they don't swap recipes and come to sniff the fence and shoot the schmidt as much anymore. Funny that, eh?

And so then it was Mr. Mole, who has been digging holes in the backyard like he's found an express route to China. Holy Son was bored the other day so I told him to go get a shovel and play whack a mole. Way cheaper than the arcade version and slightly more interactive. We have yet to do anything about this sly slippery worm eater, but suffice to say, his days are numbered.

And then if that wasn't enough of a welcoming committee, we were then treated to the daily rounds of giant house spiders. I finally broke down and after seeing one right above my head in the basement around midnight last weekend, decided to google it. Here's a tip: don't google "giant house spiders Seattle" if you are the least bit arachnophobic and prone to midnight heebies. Because what will tend to happen is you will discover that the spider(s) you have found in your home look suspiciously identical to hobo, brown recluse and other nasty, man-eating arachnids. I'm just saying, is all.

These things are massive and gross and they go like snot when you're trying to crush them. I still have the leg remnants of one gynormous spider stuck in the popcorn ceiling of my office when I bonked it with a large wrapping paper roll, which happened to be the closest weapon I had on hand. And so now when I use the downstairs computer, I have this shoulder tic action going on now. Every three seconds I tilt my head to the left, eyeball the ceiling to the southwest, on the very real chance that same crippled spider has come back to life and is now coming to suck my blood.

Yesterday morning I almost stepped on one just outside my bedroom door. He got it with the main bath toilet brush. I flushed him down the toilet, crumpled but still very much alive. He's coming to get me too - I just know it. I'll have to pee in some kind of Nadia Comaneci straddle position now. Or perhaps assume a grand plié just above that particular potty now. I'm not sure why it is we (I) imagine that spiders swim upstream through sewer water and then up into our (my) lovely porcelain bathroom bowls, but we (I) do. There are far easier ways to get into the house. And clearly these spiders have found some. I know they're just being friendly and all, but like, hello, goodbye, already. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

Supposedly 'tis the season for these creepy crawlies. And 'tis the locale. Seattle is apparently one of the spider capitals of the world. On my top five list of things I miss about Canada must go "lack of creepy crawlies." Lord tundering dying Jesus, I miss them thar northern tundra where the sun shines aplenty but the bugs don't dare live.

The fruit flies have also moved in and seem to prefer to camp out in our kitchen near and dear to the bananas. I need to get on the bowl of vinegar thing toota sweeta.

But it gets better. Yesterday, not long after the spider flushing incident, I heard a loud jackhammering on my roof. (Pronounced rooooo-ff not rough).

I went out to the patio to look and there's Woody, out there pecking his way through the cedar shakes sheer clear to my kitchen. There's a spot on the side of our garage out front that has been pecked down to nothing. They also like to peck the metal chimney tops around here - it's apparently a mating call. Lovely. So I said hi back to randy Woody and went about my day.

But two minutes later, that day changed somewhat with the arrival of some keener welcoming committee types.

My daughter has been complaining of an itchy scalp. Uh huh. You're catching on. Too bad we didn't. We were thinking: (a) dry skin - perhaps the humidity levels in the house are low (like that's even possible in Seattle); or (b) she's developed an allergy to Spudnik, our new guinea pig, who's beginning to shed; or (c) maybe she's allergic to her shampoo or the laundry soap (pillowcase) is too abrasive; or d) perhaps Spud has passed on some kind of disease or such to her, like ringworm. We never considered (e) none of the above.

So I googled ringworm. Google totally has my searches on their radar, I'm sure, because my searches are wild and wacky. And so I thought, OK, I better check her scalp for a round, red circle. And so I begin my primate picking and all of a sudden, I saw two dark bugs crawling through her hair near the top of her head. Talk about things that make you go ewww-hh. Suffice to say, we were no longer heading out the door to school at that moment because joy of all joys, the Schmidt haus had just become the louse house.

OK, OK! I shouted. Lay off the welcome mat and wagon already. We're feeling the love. Now can we not just make like bears for awhile and hibernate by ourselves?

To be honest, I feel as though I've now come of age in parenting. We've had to endure a couple of trials and tribs over the years ~ my son nearly drowning in the kiddy pool at the American Club in Islamabad as an infant has become perma-etched on my maternal psyche; same son showing off his scarlet fever groin-area scabs on the kindergarten school bus remains a defining character moment in his life; and my daughter having to endure regular enemas during her anal retentive potty training years is still a vivid picture in mein cortex (she would scream on command whenever we so much as whispered enema) ~ but knock on any remaining wood Woody hasn't gotten his beak tip on, we've been pretty, darn tooting lucky, medically speaking.

Last year, in the months preceding our carpenter ant infestation at the rental house, I had done a bit of googling on it. On account of me being a weird googler and my hair being covered with white flakes - which later turned out to be my el cheapo hairspray.

And I remember praying, please, please, please, please, don't let us have a lice problem in this house. I'll do anything you say.

But our time has come. She had a good number of lice - both big and small - marching around her scalp yesterday. So we got the shampoo, Holy Hub scrubbed her scalp with it, and then I began the tedious task of combing out the nits, strand by strand, while he set about washing sheets, clothes, etc. on the triple boil setting of the washer.

If there is any blessing in this most primordial of gorilla behaviors, nitpicking ~ it is that I got to brush, blow dry and comb my daughter's hair for hours last night. Normally I'm not even permitted to touch her hair anymore, except to put it up in a ponytail for dance or soccer.

So if one is able to find a gift amongst the lice/louse, this was it. And the fact that very little had been unpacked in her bedroom yet, so we didn't have to deal with quarantining too many beloved stuffies.

This morning, I sent her off to school again, lice and nit free. I advised the school yesterday because it's pretty obvious that whoever she got it from did not publicly disclose the same. We are hopeful but not entirely confident that we have seen the last of the lousy, little bastards.

And of course, now that I have my head back, I have an itchy scalp to boot. I've been scratching my head at two minute intervals these past 24 hours. I bet you'll find yourself doing the same today. I fairly defy you not to. The brain works in mysterious ways.

So those are the creature features of the week. I feel like I've been going off the rails of a crazy train bound for Destination: Infestation, and it somehow got stuck at Zoo Station.

Oh well, there are worse places, I suppose.

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)

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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.