Waiting Time

Parent-teacher conferences are tonight at Birdie's high school. The teachers are arranged alphabetically at individual tables throughout the cafeteria and gym. Parents wait in line for seven-minute meetings. The harder the class, the longer the line and the more often a seven-minute meeting stretches an extra three. On my first time through, five years ago to meet with Daisy's teachers, I thought I'd never figure how to work the system--squeezing in seven-minute meetings with teachers while spending as little time in line as possible. Then I found a reason to slow down. All that waiting allows me to reconnect with friends. Some I haven't seen since Birdie and Daisy started driving. Others I have somehow missed running into since elementary school. Our conversations are always the same--"How are you?" "Can you believe how long it's been?" "I remember when they were little!" Asking questions and listening to answers is only the background noise to a greater shared truth. On this one night, while waiting together, we know that we have made it this far as parents and managed to raise a decent crop of kids.

Lunch, Mr. President?

President Obama is hanging out with Americans where they live. This week, he visited an Iowa family. They live in a Des Moines suburb and beautiful trees grace their large backyard. Obama, it is reported, likes trees, and it is said, perhaps that's why this family was chosen. I like trees too, but I wonder if Obama knows how much it costs to maintain trees. Keeping the really big ones healthy and stately costs hundreds of dollars. So along with listening to Americans gathered in lawn chairs in a resplendent backyard, I hope the president gets to visit a family with crappy yews and crabgrass. I'm not that family as my yard is very nice, but I'd like to think that presidential "getting to know you" visits aren't picked by curb appeal. In fact, if Obama were to visit me, I wouldn't meet him at home, as I'd have to clean my house. Instead, we'd meet for lunch at the Gas House Grill. I would invite my friends Angelina and Gertrude to join us. We talk kids and life after kids. It's not politics, but it is the future. As for the press, the media and Obama's aides, they can grab lunch a few doors down at the Cupcake Bar.

The Dog Should Be Nervous

Each Monday, I make up for the weekend's excess by preparing an overwhelmingly healthy dinner that often isn't very good. Last night featured overgrilled swordfish, tough carrots, apple pie fries--as seen on t.v.--and aged yellow squash. Dessert flashed like a rescue beacon. Birdie, Big Guy and I eagerly prepared to taste-test Twilight chocolate bars and sugar wafers. (See Lucky Enough To Have Jacob and Shopping Impaired.) First, the chocolate. Birdie grabbed the Jacob-wrapped bar, while Big Guy zoomed in on Bella and I settled for Edward. Wrappers peeled back, we each bit our bar and discovered, really bad chocolate. I hadn't expected much from Edward and Big Guy thought Bella might promise more than she'd deliver. As for Birdie, she will think twice before falling for a werewolf. Moving on to sugar wafers, we fed bits of wafers to a blindfolded Birdie. She sampled a brown "chocolate" wafer four times and twice declared it vanilla. She called one bite of yellow "vanilla" wafer strawberry, while another was guessed vanilla. She judged a sample of the pink bar as strawberry based on its lingering not-found-in-nature aftertaste. Then she declared herself "done" as in "one more bite and I'm going to be sick." Birdie downed a large glass of water. We surveyed the remains. Then the dog snored. And we agreed: If any of us were stranded on a desert island with a Twilight bar, a pack of sugar wafers, and the dog--one would be barbeque, the others would be thrown into the sea.

I Believe In Yesterday

Hugs, kisses and giggles fill the little years, so does the sheer drudgery of soured laundry, sticky tabletops and snot-marred walls. I remember Daisy listless with pneumonia and Birdie lost at the beach. I remember vomit in the kitchen, on the living room rug, in my bed and in the minivan. And diarrhea dripping on the floor. Nothing is easy about raising little ones, but this day in April, 16 years ago, reminds me of just how much I loved my little ones time.

Umbrella Factory

Shopping Impaired

My shirt is right-side out. My shoes are on, and they're not bedroom slippers. I have a 3-item list: Bacon, half 'n half and coffee. It's only 9 a.m. I can grocery shop. Grabbing the small cart, I aim toward the bacon, but end up at the deli counter. It's not on the list, but I might need some lunch meat. There's more turkey choices than I have brains to think through. So I buy two half pound packages of the same thing. At the in-store coffee grinder, I learn the hard way that the coffee bean dispenser doesn't have an automatic stop at one pound. Dingo dog chews aren't on sale or on the list, but I buy two large Dingos and a six-pack of smaller ones. All of that I can live with. I can't explain the sugar wafers. I don't like them, but they're always out as in-store samples, except at 9 a.m I discover. With no free ones to munch, I buy a pack. For $1.34, this weekend I'll figure the truth--are the vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ones different flavors or is it an illusion?

The Scoop

It comes as a great relief to my family that as I invest time in writing, I have less time to devote to "Ways To Make Life Better," such as the reusable dog poop bag. My intentions were good. Filling plastic grocery bags with dog poop to be dumped in landfills hurts the environment. So I stitched a triple-layered bag of peach cotton fabric, complete with a drawstring tie and matching triple-layered scooping cloths. My invention worked. In a finely tuned partnership, Chuck the blind dog and I walked the block. He deposited the poop, I scooped it. Once our walk finished, I flushed the bag's still warm contents down the toilet. Once each week, I washed the bag and scooping cloths in a private hot water, high bleach load of laundry. I was happy with the solution, my family wasn't. As they pointed out, on my walks I looked like I was scooping poop into my purse. And not only do we know our neighbors, but there is always the chance that friends of Birdie or Daisy might drive by, mid-scoop. So I stopped. I am back to plastic bags. But there may be a better solution. Two subdivisions over, I spied a man holding a large plastic jar under his squatting dog. From a distance, it looked like peanut butter, chunky peanut butter.

Miss Blue Eyes

I think about my niece Miss Blue Eyes at least once a week. It isn't that we talk, email or twitter. With high school, dance and a boyfriend, her plate is full. She would be as surprised to hear from me as I would be to hear from her, and that is OK. Last Christmas Miss Blue Eyes gave me a water bottle. It was a gift I'd asked for, in the vague sense of wanting something better than a plastic bottle and then listing it on my wish list for the name exchange drawing. Miss Blue Eyes drew my name and selected the bottle. It's a no-nonsense, industrial gray steel Starbucks bottle. I wasn't sure it was exactly what I wanted, but now I treasure it for the thinking it brings. The bottle goes to the pool and sits on the edge as I swim. It reminds me of its giver, Miss Blue Eyes. Then I'm on to thinking about the rest of the relatives as I swim through 25 back-and forth minutes. If the bottle wasn't a gift, I don't know what thoughts would occupy my mind. Maybe I'd tweak the Pythagorean Theorem or figure out who was first--the chicken or the egg. But chances are, I'd just get bored.

Lucky Enough To Get Jacob

I almost made it out of Wal-Mart in record time. A single customer, with six items, cheerfully greeted the express lane cashier. All was well, until her three boxes of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies rang at the wrong price. Her voice changed tone and the lane light flashed. I bailed to a longer line. That's when I spied Jacob, Bella and Edward. The famous Twilight trio has struck an otherworldly deal with America's retail giant. Each has his or her own candy bar wrapper displayed at the register. The New Moon "sky bars," some imprinted with Bella, some with Edward and others with Jacob promise the same treat inside--a chocolate bar with three splitable sections, one stamped with a wolf (milk chocolate), the second with a heart (peanut butter) and the third, well, it looks like a squished spider (caramel). The symbolism, of course, is apparent. And for once, I was thankful for my slow line. While an abundant supply of Edward and Bella bars remained, only two Jacob bars existed. No surprise as Jacob is way hotter than Edward and Bella is clueless. Because the candy bars were on clearance (how embarrassing for Twilight), I bought a Bella, an Edward and a Jacob. Next week, I'll taste test to confirm Jacob is best. As I grabbed my purchase, I noticed Famous Amos Lady talking to the cashier and a store manager. She shook a box at them. Things looked dicey at best. They would probably feel much better talking cookie prices over a trio of New Moon "sky bars," I thought. But then I reconsidered. After all, only one would be lucky enough to get Jacob.

To Age Is To Asian

St. Luke's Hospital means well, I'm sure, with its Spirit of Women information cards. There are six in the series. Each covers a decade of life, starting with women in their 20's, and explains specific ways to stay healthy. It's hard not to be thankful for handy reminders for lifesaving tests, especially since I double-check to see if my shoes match. It is more the youthfulness of the creative team that I wonder about. Check out Ms. 20s. My guess is that she is bar room bullriding. Sounds fun. Ms. 30-something chats on the phone. The creatives probably thought she was too old to text. While Ms. 40s listens attentively to someone--probably a 20-something talking too loudly and with too much authority, Ms. 50s really gives pause. With her huge headphones and overly white-toothed grin, she is dipping into something to get through the decade. I have no quarrel with Ms. 60s. But Ms. 70s has turned distinctly Asian. I can only assume Turning Asian is a natural part of aging. As for African Americans, they are not represented. Even more depressing, neither are Ms. 80s and Ms. 90s. And where is Ms. 100s? Even if I won't reach for her information card for a really long time, I'd like to think St. Luke's feels confident I might get there, Asian or not.

September Feast

My Bike Coach

I don't ride bikes often enough to keep air in the tires. But I think of Fae as my bike coach. We talked this week. She assured me that writing was like riding a bike. While you may be rusty, you don't forget. And then Fae handed me an assignment and pushed me down the driveway. As I sift through research abstracts and track leads, my skills wobble. I talk to sources and stumble through what I want to ask. But they are patient, and with each question answered, I gain confidence. I'm even more encouraged when I think of a genuine bike racer I know. He competes in level two competitions, with his sights set on ascending to level one. That's where professional bike teams recruit. This biker sports a striking tattoo on his leg calf. Done in red and black ink, a triangle surrounds a racing biker. Wrapped around the three outside edges are the initials of the racer's father, mother and sister. This racer never rides alone. His support team helps drive the pedals. That's how I want to write, with a coach and a (tiny) support team. I won't tattoo your name, but I know you are there.

Call Me

I would feel so much better if it had rained more and the backyard ground was softer. I want to bury a telephone and its annoying sidekick the answering machine. It is not that I don't like getting calls, although most of those come to my cell phone; it's just that I can't get the answering machine to take messages or even track the time of day. Today I am expecting An Important Call, so I needed some work from the nonperformer. So I dug out the answering machine manual and carefully followed instructions to record a charming yet efficient message. I even synchronized the time. To no avail. My test call went unwelcomed. The phone rang, but the answering machine with its curved grin of buttons remained silent. So I severed the pair. Now the phone won't ring and the answering machine is snickering. I'm left wondering why I didn't give my cell phone number to my Important Caller. After all, my cell phone works. And if it quits, it is much easier to bury.

The Talking Head

The talking head waltzed into our bedroom last night. I never thought I'd like the phone with video thing, but Daisy at college has changed that. Skype puts her, or at least her head, wherever her sister Birdie is willing to transport her, via laptop. Last night's appearance was especially welcome as the Daisy at home always stopped in to talk over her day before saying "Good night." With Daisy's Skype eyes watching, we swiveled the laptop so she could see a cat and dog snoozing at our feet. She wasn't able to rouse them as she sounds nothing like the refrigerator. And then we spun our Daisy back to us and talked as if she were sprawled across the bed. Nearly 25 minutes passed. No crisis was solved, no deep secret revealed, just little tidbits of news and nothingness that ended with "Good Night."

Turkey Panic

Defrosting the freezer always uncovers mysteries--like why am I saving a bag with three pecans rattling around? Some things I can only guess, the brussell sprouts and cauliflower were probably bought in a venegeful moment, as not everyone in the family likes them. Since they were shoved to a far corner of the freezer, whatever wrong was done must have been forgiven before dinnertime. While I am keeping the unpopular vegetables, I threw out the package of pizza snack rolls that expired in July 2007. My favorite freezer find is the 18-pound Butterball Turkey. As I dug it out from underneath a monster-sized bag of chicken wings (what party were they earmarked for?), I remember the turkey purchase last May. My oldest daughter Daisy was graduating from high school. I was cool and collected about the event as graduation is pretty much a given in our family. Or at least I thought I was. I bought the turkey in a sudden panic, thinking about how many people were coming into town and wondering how I'd possibly feed them. At that moment, I realized that high school graduation, however taken for granted it might be, is a big deal. It's a sure sign that the fledgling is preparing to leave the nest. Having waded through that brief foray of deep thinking, I was stuck with the turkey. Reclaiming my grip on reality, I remembered that my town has plenty of restaurants. I tried to pass the turkey on to my mother, the only one who would cook it well, as a bubblewrapped, pillowcase-enclosed Mother's Day gift. She laughed and didn't take it with her. Much of the summer, the turkey languished in its pillowcase in the freezer. The pillowcase and bubblewrap finally made their way back to wherever those things lurk. And the turkey with its Butterball-wrapper slowly rolled toward the bottom corner of the freezer. Now it's front and middleshelved, a reminder that Daisy is doing just fine; her mom is, too; and the restaurant bills are paid.

Now I Know What I Need

It's Monday. I'm defrosting the freezer and the coffee's gone cold. All of which somehow explains why googling FloNotes seems so enticing. First Google wants to know if I mean FlipNotes. Note to self, what the heck is FlipNotes? Keeping on track, my Google search identifies FloNotes as a newsletter of the Army Family Liaison Office. That takes me back to my childhood of "where are you from" and "when are you moving." Two questions Army brats constantly ask. FloNotes also pops up for Flo "Demolition Man" Simba, a heavyweight champion professional boxer. Call me an instant Simba fan. With those tidbits, I will go far at parties. As the ice continues to melt, I google Florrie. Yes, there are Florries out there. To clarify, I'm not the cult figure Florrie as she is dead. That crazy Florrie enthralled/mortified 1970's college students with her tales of a former life as a heroin addicted prostitute. Apparently, she was quite funny and had a bunch of followers. Don't want to be her, but now I know that what I really need is my very own Florrie cult. Maybe it would finish the defrost.

Wishes or Weed Wannabees?

Fae Day

TGIF Thank God It's Fae Day. At least that's what I'm telling myself. I'm getting ready to shoot off an email to an editor friend. It has been a long time since we've talked, but what I like most about Fae is her kindness. I need advice on how to get back into the business. She'll push me out of the nest. Then it's up to me to find my wings. All of which reminds me of my brawling hummingbirds. I'm running a backyard roadhouse. As soon as one half-pint warrior bellies up to the bar, another darts in to start up the equivalent of a hummingbird fist-fight. No fists limits them to wild helicopter chases. Guess Darwin got it right. Imagine adding fists--or make that really long arms and fists--into the mix.

WordFright

I've got WordFright. Today I diagnosed it. The keyboard calls, my fingers get twitchy and my mind goes haywire. Random thoughts of what I'd like to write flood in, only to smack against the write-about-that? hurdle. Stacked close behind are the triple sandpits of I'm thirsty, the cat wants out and oh, crap I forgot to start the dryer. All of which pales in comparison to what I'm really thinking--what if I can't do it anymore? Writing used to be my bread and butter, but that was 10 years ago. Now's the time to find out what's left of my craft. Word by word. I've got FloNotes started, and I'm going to tell, actually beg, my friends to read it--which will make it really embarrassing if I don't write.