Our 4-lb baby burrito1998
Our 95-lb enchilada
2009
Happy birthday to the bad mom's first offspring.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
he goes to 11
Our 4-lb baby burrito 
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
food of love
Music in Jardin du Luxembourgphoto by moi, 2008
Worldly Wordlessness
Hear it everywhere.
Singing laughter, first love songs
Music of our lives.
Friday, September 18, 2009
bring the calm
1. My car does not carry people who call it a minivan.
2. The boy's 11th birthday is coming up next.
3. Lately, things seem strangely serene & productive.
4. Under the covers of my bed is one of my favorite 'hiding' places.
5. What happened is a tragic mystery.
6. Forgiveness is not impossible!
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to fancy dinner out with my man, tomorrow my plans include a wedding in Cannon Beach and Sunday, I want to savor a few hours of alone time with Stu on the beach. Then a few hours with my Cowboys on the couch [just me on the couch; they're on the field of course...].
Thank God it's Friday Fill-Ins
The beloved Galaxy Gray Multi-Activity Vehicle
Thursday, September 17, 2009
saving the best
I had a couple of friends who were girls
from kindergarten through sixth grade
But I was always on edge with them,
Trying to stay on their good side
while sidestepping their meannesses toward others.
In junior high I met my first girlfriends.
They were smart, like me, enjoyed reading
like me
Thought the same goofy boys were endearing
and never expected meanness
to stay on their good side.
But in college we separated,
growing toward our grown-up lives
and away from each other.
I made other friends,
none close.
Now in the middle of my life
I have found the friends I need the most.
They are smart, like me, enjoy reading
like me
Think the same goofy boys are endearing
and expect nothing but honesty
to stay on their good side.
Jen strengthened my faith in God and myself;
she showed me how to be a beautiful strong woman
regardless of how ugly & weak we saw ourselves at times.
Lisa shared a passion for writing out our hearts & minds;
she showed me how to be joyous yet fierce
even when staring into the face of pain & sorrow.
Holly renewed my spirit for activism and involvement;
she showed me how to take a stance & establish a presence
despite my fear & uncertainty.
Now is the time for girlfriends, powerful ones,
when I am sure yet not;
when I am steady yet not;
when I am solid yet not.
I am blessed, I am loved, I am whole at last.
for Love Letters and Yesterday, Today and Forever
from kindergarten through sixth grade
But I was always on edge with them,
Trying to stay on their good side
while sidestepping their meannesses toward others.
In junior high I met my first girlfriends.
They were smart, like me, enjoyed reading
like me
Thought the same goofy boys were endearing
and never expected meanness
to stay on their good side.
But in college we separated,
growing toward our grown-up lives
and away from each other.
I made other friends,
none close.
Now in the middle of my life
I have found the friends I need the most.
They are smart, like me, enjoy reading
like me
Think the same goofy boys are endearing
and expect nothing but honesty
to stay on their good side.
Jen strengthened my faith in God and myself;
she showed me how to be a beautiful strong woman
regardless of how ugly & weak we saw ourselves at times.
Lisa shared a passion for writing out our hearts & minds;
she showed me how to be joyous yet fierce
even when staring into the face of pain & sorrow.
Holly renewed my spirit for activism and involvement;
she showed me how to take a stance & establish a presence
despite my fear & uncertainty.
Now is the time for girlfriends, powerful ones,
when I am sure yet not;
when I am steady yet not;
when I am solid yet not.
I am blessed, I am loved, I am whole at last.
for Love Letters and Yesterday, Today and Forever
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
big kid
My son, the would-be actor/comedian/general goofball, was offered the chance to do a 2-minute opening gag at David Cross's Portland show next week. We first got an e-mail a few weeks ago saying they specifically wanted a 10-year old who was good at imitations and had stage presence, and they were paying $100 plus 4 tickets [for grown-ups] to the show. Mason was ecstatic about the opportunity. We watched some of David's kid-appropriate videos and made contact with the promoter who would be our liaison. P.S. We were told that even though the show would be Adults Only, Mason's bit would be "clean."
Fast forward to this past Sunday when we got an e-mail from the very nice promoter Dan at Square Peg Concerts that let us know "the kid part has some adult lines." Hey, I'm a forward-thinking, alternative-school teaching bad mom, no? I replied that some innuendo and/or mild language would be acceptable but could we please have a peek at a script? Very nice promoter Dan sent the bit back with the ominous heading "Here it is...".
I am not one for sheltering my children from life's realities. I do not hyperventilate over words. I do feel it is important to allow kids to make their own decisions in matters that directly affect them [not life or death, of course, but comedy - though hard - is not life or death; it's a job].
And so. Even though as we read through the lines and cringed a few times, particularly at the parts that included the f-bomb, bitch, and a**holes, Stu & I agreed to let Mason decide if this was an endeavor he felt worth taking. Since he got home from Scouts close to bedtime, we explained the situation and told him he could read the e-mail and make his decision in the morning. But our boy was conflicted without even reading it; he tossed and turned then started crying, unable to sleep. When I went in to calm him and asked what was on his mind, he wailed "I don't know what to do!" Our almost-11 year old "Don't kiss me in front of friends" middle schooler needed me to take this off his shoulders. I hugged him, said I could tell it wasn't in his heart, and assured him that was okay. In fact, better than okay - it takes a big person to walk away from fame and cash in exchange for peace of mind & dignity.
Though it makes me wonder if I should have been the bigger person and made the call for my kid in the first place.
Fast forward to this past Sunday when we got an e-mail from the very nice promoter Dan at Square Peg Concerts that let us know "the kid part has some adult lines." Hey, I'm a forward-thinking, alternative-school teaching bad mom, no? I replied that some innuendo and/or mild language would be acceptable but could we please have a peek at a script? Very nice promoter Dan sent the bit back with the ominous heading "Here it is...".
I am not one for sheltering my children from life's realities. I do not hyperventilate over words. I do feel it is important to allow kids to make their own decisions in matters that directly affect them [not life or death, of course, but comedy - though hard - is not life or death; it's a job].
And so. Even though as we read through the lines and cringed a few times, particularly at the parts that included the f-bomb, bitch, and a**holes, Stu & I agreed to let Mason decide if this was an endeavor he felt worth taking. Since he got home from Scouts close to bedtime, we explained the situation and told him he could read the e-mail and make his decision in the morning. But our boy was conflicted without even reading it; he tossed and turned then started crying, unable to sleep. When I went in to calm him and asked what was on his mind, he wailed "I don't know what to do!" Our almost-11 year old "Don't kiss me in front of friends" middle schooler needed me to take this off his shoulders. I hugged him, said I could tell it wasn't in his heart, and assured him that was okay. In fact, better than okay - it takes a big person to walk away from fame and cash in exchange for peace of mind & dignity.
Though it makes me wonder if I should have been the bigger person and made the call for my kid in the first place.
Friday, September 11, 2009
rewind, rerun, remember
[originally posted 9/11/08]
None of my students were older than middle school on September 11, 2001; my own children were only a year old and almost 3. Yet I share this poem on this date because I want them to understand the significance of the tragedy. I might never know how much it helps to illuminate not only the devastation of lives & families, but also the individual beauty of each life lost; I can only hope someday it is clear. I think all of us sometimes forget how much we really mean to the people around us, even if we're not rich or famous - or, even if we are. Each of us matters, and somebody is noticing.
by Martin Espada (Thank you)
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from
Fajardo, the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana, Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
None of my students were older than middle school on September 11, 2001; my own children were only a year old and almost 3. Yet I share this poem on this date because I want them to understand the significance of the tragedy. I might never know how much it helps to illuminate not only the devastation of lives & families, but also the individual beauty of each life lost; I can only hope someday it is clear. I think all of us sometimes forget how much we really mean to the people around us, even if we're not rich or famous - or, even if we are. Each of us matters, and somebody is noticing.
by Martin Espada (Thank you)
Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100
for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant, who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center
Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from
Fajardo, the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.
Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana, Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.
Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.
After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.
Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
bring the fall
my fabulous GAP outlet boots2009
Behold: Polka dots!
Nothing to do with polkas,
but all about rain.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
big tease
Please stay tuned for a Very Special Post tomorrow.
In the meantime, here are some fun things to peruse. [And by "fun" I mean "won't cost you anything and/or cause you to gain weight, lose eyesight, or otherwise impair your health."]
Because you're so kind to hang around even when I'm all disorganized & distracted, I'll throw in this picture of my new addition to the Potential Second Husband list[s] (after watching (500) Days of Summer yesterday, I am smitten):
...a long way from the 3rd Rock...
Monday, September 7, 2009
road trip back in time
My nerdilicious son & his equally delightfully geeky friend clamored to see a local Civil War reenactment on Saturday and though I generally do not love outdoor activity, it seemed a fine opportunity to encourage study of history [read: war & weapons]. And to wear my supercute polka dot boots.
Friday, September 4, 2009
freaky friday
1. I feel overwhelmed, already.
2. Watching Dexter with my man is always fun.
3. Right now, I can hear these things: Hawaiian wind chimes plunking & ceiling fan whirring.
4. School has started and I'm glad to see my students again.
5. The last time I fell in love was last night (and not the Blockbuster guy, though he did hold Dexter for me...swoon).
6. I will relish each moment of this Labor day weekend.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to getting ahead on my lesson planning, tomorrow my plans include taking two delightfully goony boys to Astoria for a Civil War reenactment, and Sunday I want to find some quiet.
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